


Look Up

by MdmUnderhill



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Multi, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MdmUnderhill/pseuds/MdmUnderhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing financial ruin, Abigail Ashe determines to build a new life for herself. But fate deals us all strange cards. Picking up at the tail end of season three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 29th of March, morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Never actually written anything before. These two are pretty fascinating though, so here goes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _29th of March, in the year of our Lord 1716_
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> _On this day in the port of Nassau, the pirate Charles Vane was judged guilty of the crimes of piracy, treason, conspiracy, murder, assault, larceny, perjury, debauchery, and arson, among numerous others. He was sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead for his crimes, in the name of His Majesty, George, by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc._

Abigail Ashe did not look away from the twitching form of Captain Charles Vane. She had stopped breathing when she saw him take that last step off the wagon serving as a gallows, and now she forced herself to inhale again, consciously moving air in and out of her chest. She desperately wanted to look away, look down, look anywhere except at the hanged man, but she forced herself to keep her eyes steady as he jerked and grunted in his final throes. The time in her life when she would be sheltered from the cruel realities of this world was over, and she would not look away now, no matter how much she wanted to.

The crowd's silence was palpable, the calm teetering on the edge of a knife as the men and women absorbed Vane's final words. He continued to jolt, and Abigail realized his neck had not snapped when he fell. Instead of a quick death, the man would slowly and painfully suffocate. _Look_ , she silently ordered herself. Unshed tears stung her eyes, and Abigail was surprised at them. Although Captain Vane had once held her hostage, she found she felt little ill towards him for it anymore. Compared with the long list of cruelties she had seen since, the part Vane had played in her life simply did not seem so heinous as it once had.

In a strange way, it had been Charles Vane who first made Abigail open her eyes and really look at the world around her. This was not to say he had not frightened her. Vane was a pirate, and she believed he would not have hesitated to kill her if he had deemed it necessary. But she believed it would have been a quick death, at least, and there was mercy in that. No, it was Ed Low, the man who had first kidnapped her from the _Fancy_ , who still stalked her dreams in the dead of night. Compared to that all-consuming terror, her fear for Vane had been a trifle. When Vane had killed Low and imprisoned her, Abigail had assumed the ransom her father might pay to be his motivation. She knew she was merely a valuable chip in his cruel game, and she could at least understand that. Low, on the other hand, just seemed to enjoy inflicting pain, so as far as Abigail had been concerned, Captain Vane had made for a marginally preferable captor.

She remembered how surreal it had felt to stand under the open sky again after so many days trapped in Low's hull and then in the bowels of Nassau's fort. Her rescuer, a woman named Eleanor Guthrie had led her by the hand as Abigail stumbled out of those tunnels and down the hill. Vane had nearly caught them, and she had been so afraid of what he might do, or that Miss Guthrie would hand her back over to him. She had honestly thought she might faint. She would have run when she saw him, she had wanted to desperately, had trembled with the effort of staying in place, but Miss Guthrie stayed, and Abigail would not abandon the woman. Lingering in the darkness under the fort, Abigail had witnessed an exchange between the pirate and her rescuer, one that had left Abigail questioning everything she thought she had known about this world and her own. As he spoke to Miss Guthrie, Abigail began to piece together the truth behind his actions. The ransom had not been his _motivation_. It had been his _excuse_. "I killed him for you," he had said, and Abigail remembered her surprise to see such terrible pain in the pirate's eyes as he looked at Eleanor and the iron bars between them. Abigail had recognized the sadness in Vane's voice as he had quietly spoken to Eleanor, then the anger as he understood that when forced to choose, the woman he loved would never choose him. Even then, underneath the myriad swirling knots of fear and pain and anger she had felt for herself, to see that last tenderness be burned away, Abigail had felt her heart ache for that man, standing alone in the dark.

Abigail's father had always said that she had far too sentimental a heart. Perhaps he had been right, considering she had found pity for her jailer in the moment of her escape. Her father had told her that all pirates were unrepentant monsters, that they had cast aside all morality and love in their avarice for chaos and destruction. Having heard the tales of their deeds, Abigail had believed him. Before that night in the tunnel, she had thought her experience as their hostage had confirmed it. But Abigail could not reconcile those beliefs with what she saw in Charles Vane in that moment. She saw the pirate she had thought to be a monster was only a man. A hard man, Abigail knew all too well, who had done terrible things. But she could never shake the fact remained that at least one of those things had been done out of love. As she watched him looking out from behind those bars, Vane's gaze had flickered to Abigail for a moment, and for the first time she had wondered what it was he saw when he looked at her.

Captain Vane jerked in his noose again, and Abigail clenched her jaw, her mind wrenching back to the present. She had not looked away yet, but she would not allow her mind to shield her from what was happening now, either. Focusing on the mechanical action of her breathing, Abigail tried not to even blink, for fear she would lack the strength to open her eyes again if she allowed them respite for even an instant. She had heard his words. She knew what they meant. With his death, Vane was breathing life into a revolution. Whether or not she agreed with it, a sacrifice of this caliber was not the action of a simple monster. This man was dying for something he believed in, and she _would_ bear witness.

At last, a few men stepped forward from the crowd to grant mercy. They eyed the soldiers warily as they approached, but they did not slow until they reached Vane. The men pulled down, the rope creaked, and Vane gurgled sickeningly. Abigail's chest shuddered gently as she dragged more air into her lungs, but she kept her gaze locked. Finally, with one final jerk, it was over. She inhaled deeply again, and exhaled quietly, willing the shakiness of her breathing away as she repeated the action, the crowd beginning to disperse around her. She stood still for a moment, and then began turning away finally, her eyes idly tracing the still perceivable path one of the men had cut through the crowd, and her breath caught in her throat.

Abigail froze mid step, half turned away from a familiar tall man. Billy Bones, a pirate under the command of James Flint, stared back at her. Their eyes came together once again, as they had in the dim mess of his ship's hull, what felt like a lifetime ago. Shock was clear on his face, as it was on the faces of most of the people who had just seen what had just transpired. For a moment, she thought he might cross the square to speak with her, or that maybe she might just do so herself, but then a man said something to him, and Billy turned away, the spell that had momentarily frozen them now broken. Abigail hesitated momentarily, then turned away herself. She needed to be on her way, in any case. She suspected the tears she had suppressed would come rushing back soon, and she would much rather they did so in private.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Vane was actually hanged in 1721, in Port Royal, Jamaica, but that's neither here nor there :D


	2. 7th of April, late afternoon

Billy Bones ducked his head as he stepped from the bustling street into the merchant's shop, tucking the thee-cornered hat he'd been wearing under his arm as he did so. His eyes darted around the shop quickly for any familiar faces, and seeing no one save the portly shopkeeper, heaved a sigh of relief. The shop still had a smell of fresh lumber, it was even almost cool in the late afternoon heat, and the respite was welcome. Billy wished he didn't need to wear the hat, or the bloody tight coat he'd found at Mrs. Barlow's cottage, for that matter. It was too small and too damn hot besides. But secrecy was the name of the game at the moment, and every trip into town a risk.

Billy had been sailing out of Nassau for roughly eight years now, and the chances of him being recognized were not negligible. His height made him stick out like a sore thumb, and he was known for going about in his shirt sleeves alone. Hopefully the coat and hat helped disguise him at a glance, not to mention hiding his arms, which was a necessity for the time being. They were in dire need of supplies, and since there wasn't anyone else who could go, it fell to Billy. Ben still didn't know where anything was in Nassau, and was absolute shit with directions when it came to getting around town anyway. Featherstone had ferreted what he could away from town, but Max had noticed immediately, and they couldn't afford Featherstone or his woman to be seen coming or going from the Barlow woman's cottage too much. Finally, Jacob Garrett was more valuable out by the docks, where he could flit from crew to crew, collecting and seeding rumors. They had already worked their way through the dried meat and other provisions they had brought, in addition to what they had been able to scrounge together at the cottage. They had some vegetables thanks to the Barlow woman's garden, but not enough due to it having gone untended for too long. The men Mrs. Barlow employed to see to it in her absence must have stopped coming quite soon after she had left with Flint that final time. It would take some time and care to get it producing at a high enough level to support anyone. He had even butchered one of the skinny dairy goats to put this off, but now they were so low on everything there would be no more putting it off. The meager supply of coin in his pockets jingled as he walked, and Billy didn't like to think about what they'd do once it was gone, too.

The shopkeeper frowned when he saw Billy, obviously displeased to see him darkening his door. Billy paused for an instant. He had picked this shop because it was new, having sprung up not long after the governor had arrived, from what Billy had gathered. Word of civilization's return to the island had travelled fast, and there were multiple traders and merchants new to the island now, eager to get in early with the newest government, and fill the hole left by the Guthries' enterprise. However, Billy knew what he looked like, and everyone knew Nassau was not civilized yet. Smiling slightly in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion, Billy uttered a polite greeting as he produced a list of goods from his coat and offered it to the man. The shopkeeper stared sourly at him for a moment, but nodded before snatching the list away, beginning to gather and package the items as quickly as he could. Billy turned to lean against the wall as he waited, careful the keep to the shadows, but still maintain a weather eye on the door, just in case. He didn't think anyone was onto him yet, but it was all too well known just whose crew he was on, and he didn't think it would take long for Eleanor Guthrie to add current events up if she found out Billy Bones was in Nassau instead of on board the _Walrus_.

Things were going well, so far. Captain Throckmorton's execution had gone off without a hitch. If things had gone as planned on the maroons' island, Hornigold should be dead by now as well. They were the strongest of the captains that had accepted the Governor's pardon, and with them gone, turning the street against Governor Rogers should be possible, the man's alliance with Miss Guthrie making that task even easier. Billy had never cared much for Hornigold, had found him a pompous old fuck, but he'd liked Throckmorton well enough. He'd been a decent man, ran a tight ship as far as Billy ever saw, always fair to his men, even had a wife and children somewhere deep in the island's interior. Billy paused at the thought, frowning slightly. Perhaps he should see about sending some money to them, now their father was dead.

Billy's eyes drifted away from the door and down to his arms crossed over his chest. Under the too-tight coat sleeves, his arms were marred with a myriad of now half-healed bruises and scratches, left by the old man's scrabbling hands when Billy had strangled him. Even given Billy's size, the deed had still proven to be surprisingly easy. He remembered how the struggling had eventually faded to feathery taps. He swallowed as he remembered the look in Throckmorton's staring eyes when life had finally left him. It wasn't a good death, but it had been necessary. That was what Billy'd told himself while stringing Throckmorton's corpse up, anyway, and he'd continued telling himself so each day since.

Billy started a bit when he heard the door clatter, cursing himself for not paying attention. A woman stepped inside, a shop worker most like, based on her well-made but plain dress. Billy didn't catch a glimpse of her face before she had turned to the counter, but the shopkeeper seemed much happier to see her than he had Billy. She quietly exchanged pleasantries with the round man as she rattled off a list of goods to be delivered to the milliner the next day. Billy watched the pair's exchange idly, wishing for any distraction from his previous dark thoughts. It was a young woman based on what little of her words he could hear, and it was soothing to let her soft voice wash over him. Dark hair fell in glossy waves down her back, the fading sun playing amongst her curls. Billy couldn't help but make note of the rather nice curve of her hips, as well...

The shopkeeper was darting glares at Billy over the woman's shoulder, and, when Billy finally noticed, he frowned, steadily returning the little man's stare until the shopkeeper shied away, now studiously ignoring him. Billy snorted softly to himself. As if that man had never stolen a glance at a pretty girl before, for fuck's sake. The shopkeeper turned away, and the woman turned around, looking about the shop. His heart stopped. " _Jesus_ ," he breathed. If she hadn't just been talking to the shopkeeper, he'd think he was seeing her ghost again. It was Abigail _fucking_ Ashe. Billy's eyes widened in shock, but otherwise he thought he kept his composure well schooled. He'd thought she was dead, back in Charlestown. He thought quickly of how he'd just been eyeing her figure while her back had been turned, and fervently hoped he didn't start to blush like a damn cabin boy not worth his salt. What the fuck was she doing in Nassau, anyway? The day of Vane's execution, he'd thought he imagined her across the square, some inexplicable apparition his mind had called up in his shock. Her presence in Nassau had seemed too impossible to have been anything else.

She started a little as well. Not surprising, Billy thought, considering how he was lurking in this dark corner. Abigail—  _Miss Ashe_ , he corrected himself, regained her composure quickly though, then stepped over to Billy's corner. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bones." _Bones_. He'd long since learned to control his instinctual scowl at being addressed by that name. He fucking hated that name. He wondered who'd given it to her.

* * *

 

Abigail smiled up at the tanned face of Billy Bones, repressing an urge to giggle at the obvious wide-eyed shock on his face. After Vane's execution, she had heard the _Walrus_ had fled Nassau's waters, so she had not supposed she would see any of her crew for some time, if ever, given the ominous rumblings coming from the governor's house. He grunted a little, then nodded to her as he simply replied, "Miss Ashe." He continued to stare at her. He had an intense gaze. Abigail glanced down at his coat. It was faded, and seemed to be too small. He was still staring. This was starting to feel awkward. She had approached him without thought, and now realized she did not know how to even begin a conversation with the man before her. She began to open her mouth to remark upon the weather, always a safe point of conversation, when he suddenly blurted out, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She raised her chin at his language, and the man at least had the good grace to look somewhat abashed. "Sorry," he muttered. In the corner of her eye, Abigail saw the shopkeeper glance up from his work to them, frowning. She kept her attention on Mr. Bones, and his gaze never faltered in its study of her. "You must understand, it's... _surprising_ to see you again. And to see you on this island, of all places?" He shook his head a little, bewilderment clear on his face.

"I suppose it must seem strange," she replied slowly. It was downright bizarre, she knew. She could scarcely believe it herself, sometimes, how odd life's turns could be. "Well, I—"

"Your parcels are ready, sir," the shopkeeper called out suddenly. Abigail jumped yet again, but Mr. Bones seemed slightly startled as well. They both looked at the man, who was staring quite darkly at Mr. Bones. The pirate nodded to her, then stepped around her and up to the counter. Abigail followed, and watched as he placed several fat gold guineas on the counter. The shopkeeper eyed Mr. Bones, and with one last dubious look at the tall man, swept the guineas up and ducked under the counter, the clatter of coins sounding in a money box. The shopkeeper popped up again in a hurry, and placed several coppers and one rather grubby silver piece on the counter.

Abigail frowned. She was not sure what all Mr. Bones had purchased, but given the small size of the parcels, and what she had seen the shopkeep parceling (hard tack and salt) there was simply no way this was correct. It wasn't enough. By half. The men looked at each other, measuring. With a small sigh, Mr. Bones' jaw set into a resigned grimace, and his hand began to reach for the coins.

Before Abigail even realized she was doing it, she had reached out and stopped Mr. Bones' hand mid-action. He glanced down at her, and no doubt his eyes were filled with questions. She gently tugged his hand back a little, revealing the coins, but did not look up at him. Instead, she channeled ice into her eyes, and focused her cool gaze on the shopkeeper. "I beg your pardon, sir," she stated in as prim a voice as she could muster. Her stomach flipped about with nerves, but she continued. "But I could not help but notice, you have made an error in counting out this gentleman's change. My _friend_ is too polite to point it out himself." She then smiled up at Mr. Bones, removing her hand from his and patting his arm, feigning familiarity to give credence to the pretense. His face had transitioned from mild confusion to unveiled bafflement. She returned her eyes to the shopkeeper, every inch of her the noble lady she had been raised to be. "But I can see what an honest gentleman you are, sir, and I trust you would never wish for such a thing to go unrectified." She smiled then, hoping he understood that she would have it known _just_ how honest he actually _was_ if he did not rectify his 'error.'

The shopkeeper gawked at her, then at the coins still on the counter, and finally at Mr. Bones' hand resting on the counter. He blinked a few times. Abigail thought she could hear scales in his head creaking as he weighed the decision. In an instant, his face split into a obsequious smile. "Why, miss, you are right. How clumsy of me, I do beg your pardon, sir!" He said this in a rush as he swept the coins on the counter into the box, then plucked out a much more reasonable amount in gleaming silver, making great show of counting now. He placed them in Billy Bones' hand, closing the young man's fist around the coins with a friendly pat. He looked from Mr. Bones to Abigail, and back again, blathering on with false brightness, "An honest mistake, that's all, pure and simple. It shan't happen again, I assure you. These things happen, we all know. An honest mistake."

For his part, Mr. Bones grunted as he frowned at the shopkeeper, then in quick succession, shoved the coins into his pocket, tucked the parcels tightly under his arm, and placed the hat back on his head. He turned to Abigail, irritation fading from his face, but puzzlement still evident. His eyes flicked back to the shopkeeper for an instant before he spoke. "Could I... Escort you on your way, Miss Ashe?"

Abigail smiled. "I would be delighted, thank you, sir." He nodded, and strode to the door, opening it for her, and she followed. The shopkeeper called after her in a rush, "Please tell Mrs. Thwaites her delivery will be round first thing tomorrow!" Abigail ignored him, maintaining her frosty demeanor toward the man, and the door swung shut behind her with a clatter.

In the light of the street, sunset was fast approaching. Billy Bones towered over her. "The... milliner's shop, was it?" he asked. Abigail nodded. Over her shoulder, she could feel the shopkeeper watching them through the window. Mr. Bones was also aware it seemed, and he thrust out his arm awkwardly, clearly unsure of his action. Abigail threaded her own arm through his, and he smiled down at her. He had a lovely smile, that made years fade from his face, and made him look boyish in spite of the thick stubble that coated his cheeks. Abigail fervently hoped she did not blush. As they set off, she was pleased to see that Mr. Bones took care not to outpace her with his long strides. After a moment, with his gaze directed straight ahead, he murmured, "You didn't have to do that, you know."

Abigail looked down for a moment. "It was not right," she said quietly. She frowned. She would have to mention the exchange to Mrs. Thwaites. The milliner was not overly sympathetic towards pirates, but she took a particularly stern eye towards crooked merchants.

Mr. Bones nodded thoughtfully, and said no more on the matter, for which Abigail was thankful.

They walked in silence for a time, but it was not uncomfortable. Several farmers leading horses and carts back home from market came trundling by, and the pair ducked into the mouth of a narrow alley to let them pass. They were close to the docks, and Mr. Bones attention was directed there. Abigail took the opportunity to study the man in as sly a manner as she was capable. He was very tall, taller than she had remembered from her short time aboard the man-of-war. From the first, she had been terribly curious about him. Lady Hamilton had been quite amused by that fact, and what she perceived as his reciprocated interest, though Abigail strongly doubted that notion. After all, what man would not look back at someone so obviously gawking at them? Despite her protests, the older woman had taken great relish in imparting all she knew of the young man once they were alone that evening, though it was little more than his odd surname. The next evening after dinner, upon the captain's entrance into his quarters, Lady Hamilton had even tried to coax more information from him, "regarding our young friend's potential beau." Captain Flint had given her a look not unlike a stag spotting a hunter, looked over to see Abigail's flushed countenance, then promptly turned on his heel, and exited the cabin. The ensuing giggling fit she and Lady Hamilton had shared had made her feel almost normal again for a moment, and that alone had been worth the crippling embarrassment.

Abigail knew she would likely never get to know Billy Bones. This encounter was only some strange fluke, but now she thought she could at least get a good look at him, while he was distracted. Years of hauling rope and clambering up and down the rigging of a ship had made him strong, evidenced by the way she could feel the fabric of his coat sleeves straining against his heavily muscled arms, as her arm was still looped with his. His jaw was strong, and his cheeks were coated with blond whiskers. Abigail wondered how old he was, though she supposed he could not be past thirty, if even that. Anyone with eyes would admit he was a handsome man. Lady Hamilton had teased it was little wonder that Abigail had picked him out of the crew to be so curious about. But Abigail had seen handsome men, before and since, and she was not so silly as to have her head turned by a handsome figure alone. He just felt... Well, _familiar_ was truly the only word for it. She suspected it was something about his eyes. They conveyed intellect and strength and even kindness, but now she was able to really look, she saw sadness there, and anger as well. The deep blue shade of his eyes gave his gaze a particular intensity. With that gaze, he seemed to take everything in at once, including at this very moment, Abigail's own curious gaze. She forced her eyes to slide away at once, casting her eyes and face in a few more directions, pretending it had been coincidence. Hopefully, he might believe she had merely been looking about her surroundings, and had only glanced up at him for a bare moment. She hoped she could stop the blush that was creeping into her cheeks through willpower alone. She chided herself for being so transparent in her observation. He turned to her, the force of his full attention was almost enough to make her breath catch. The farmers and carts were long gone, but they remained sequestered in the alley. _Stop blushing, stop blushing!_ she thought desperately.

Billy withdrew his arm from hers, and looked down at her, his head cocked to one side. "Look, I know it's none of my business," he said, "but what in God's name are you doing in Nassau?"

* * *

  
Abigail— _Miss Ashe—_ was blushing terrifically. She had been staring at him, but he wagered she had presumed him to be too busy looking elsewhere to feel her gaze. Now the young lady was trying to play it off, and her feeble attempts at subterfuge were rather funny. A sheepish blush was marching up her cheeks, and her studied composure in spite of it was that of a true champion. He suppressed a grin. With her dark eyes, and fine figure, she really was rather— _none of that_ , he thought ferociously.

"It is rather a long story." Abigail fidgeted some as she spoke, smoothing her skirts. "I'm not entirely sure how to begin it."

"Start with Charlestown," he suggested. "Flint said someone had set fire to the governor's house. Figured you were dead."

"Charlestown. Yes." Her eyes were sad, and Billy immediately regretted his suggestion. "My father actually tried to send me away that morning. A rider caught up to us, I suppose not long after everything had started. They needed the militia men father had sent as an escort to return. But it was already over by the time we got back to town." Her voice grew quieter as she spoke, and she swallowed. "He was already dead by the time we found him." She looked down, her hands clenching her skirts. He could tell she was hiding her shaking.

Billy grimaced at his own idiocy for a moment. Flint had told them that Lord Ashe was dead. Vane had later told Billy that it had been Flint himself that had killed the man, his one-time friend. Of course this would be hard for her to talk about. Guilt racked him. "I'm sorry," he started, tempted to reach out to her, console her, but unsure how to, or even how such a gesture might be received. "I... I shouldn't have—"

"It's quite alright," she interrupted. She looked up, her eyes were wet, but it was apparent she had no intention of letting any of those tears fall. She took a deep breath before she continued. "It is... a relief. In a way. To talk to someone who was there, I mean. I loved my father, but he was not blameless in what happened in Charlestown, I know." She sighed before she continued. "It is an expensive endeavor, government. With my father dead, it was not long before his creditors began to call. The estate was dissolved to cover the debts, and there was simply nothing left. With no other income, I had no choice but to seek a wage. So, I work for the milliner, now." She stepped out of the alley, into the quickly fading light. "Shall we continue on? Mrs. Thwaites will begin to worry soon."

Billy followed her, falling into step beside her, his brow furrowed in thought. That couldn't be the whole of it. He watched the young lady walking beside him, her hair stirring gently with the breeze. It was none of his affair. He really should not ask her any more. He found his mouth opening of its own accord, and Billy silently cursed himself as his thoughts tumbled out. "Why not just--" He caught his tongue before he finished the question. Why she had not simply gotten married was most certainly chief among the topics that were none of his damn business.

"Find a husband," Abigail finished for him. She didn't look at him as she spoke. "That is, in reality, what my father was bringing me to Charlestown for. It was already well past time for me to be wed, in any case," she mused. "He had hoped to find a more advantageous marriage in Charlestown than he could in London. If he hadn't died, maybe he could have, even after the—" she stopped short, her stride faltered, and Billy looked down to see her face had paled a little. She swallowed, then continued. "Incident. With Low."

Billy frowned, still confused. Ned Low? What did the kidnapping have to do with her getting married? Abigail saw his face, and stopped walking, regarding him solemnly. "A lady's reputation is sacred, Mr. Bones," she stated. Her face betrayed a pain different than grief now. "A whisper of impropriety is enough to ruin it. I was kidnapped by the pirate Edward Low, and then stolen from him by the even more fearsome Charles Vane. And then again by James Flint, so far as anyone who did not sail with us is concerned." Her dark eyes blazed, and her voice was low with anger. "In the eyes of society, that I might remain a virtuous woman is impossible. Whether or not I actually am is of little consequence." She shook her head, looking away from him. "Even before the creditors came, when I thought I might still somehow be able to carry on in that world, the whispers had begun. When the money was gone, people stopped bothering to whisper." She turned away, shaking her head with contempt for the situation, continuing on. Billy walked with her, matching her sedate pace, and she continued. "Gossip is a terrible creature, and it has wings. A story as sensational as mine will follow me everywhere I go, perhaps for the rest of my life. There are few men who would have me after all that has happened, especially with no dowry, and I am proud enough to not be willing to settle for the very first man that would. I have no fear of the hardships a working life entails."

Billy shook his head. One key factor remained unexplained. He'd come this far, may as well ask for the whole. "You came _here_ , though," he said quietly. "Why are you here?" They had reached the milliner's shop. The windows were glowing, and the ocean's breeze was starting to turn cool as night truly fell upon the island.

Abigail smiled, and Billy found himself again mercilessly squashing thoughts about how nicely the expression suited her. "I will not pretend that Nassau is where I would have chosen to settle, Mr. Bones. I will admit, I have wondered at the strange twist of fate myself. A lady previously of my father's acquaintance in Charlestown took pity on my situation. She began to make inquiries on my behalf. Of the dozens upon dozens of letters she sent, she received one reply." She looked up at the milliner's sign. "A widow in Nassau, in want of a worker for her shop, and a companion as she is in her later years." Abigail looked back at Billy now, her eyes unreadable. "There are not many willing to come here, so perhaps Mrs. Thwaites simply felt she could not afford to be terribly particular. Maybe living here for so long has made her more forgiving than others would be of my history. All I know is Mrs. Thwaites is exceedingly kind to me. There are many who have much less than I, even now, and I am very much aware of it." Abigail smiled ruefully, and sighed. "It may not be the life I was raised to, nor the life my father wanted for me. But it is a _life_ , and one I shall build for myself. There is merit in that, I think."

Billy regarded the young woman in front of him. He had to admit, he was impressed. Abigail Ashe was much stronger than she looked. He looked at the shop's door, and back down at Abigail— _Miss Ashe_ , he corrected himself yet again. "Well," he started. "I'll leave you here." He felt more awkward now than he had with a woman in years. She nodded, and made a small curtsy, seemingly out of habit. Billy wasn't sure how to respond to such an action, so he didn't, hoping the packages still wedged under his arm were enough excuse. "Good evening, Miss Ashe."

"Good evening, Mr. Bones," she replied.

He turned to leave, and she turned to let herself into the shop. Before he'd taken a step, Billy paused, not knowing his reasons for what he said next. "Manderly." Abigail stopped, her hand on the door, and looked back up at him. He looked back at her, over his shoulder, meeting her curious gaze squarely once again. "My name is William Manderly," he said softly.

In return, Abigail gave him a small, shy smile, and in that moment, in the warm glow from the shop's windows, she was beautiful. Billy forced himself to breathe. Her eyes didn't leave his, and in barely more than a whisper, she said, "Good evening, Mr. Manderly." She met his eyes for a moment more, then looked down, and slipped inside the shop. The door shut with barely a rattle behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some perspective shifts this time. I've got one more chapter written, but I want to run through it one more time before I post. 
> 
> If you're curious, here's a little article on millinery. https://www.history.org/history/clothing/milliner/millinershop.cfm  
> Might be a little anachronistic, but I'm finding it fairly hard to find information specific to the first half of the 18th century.


	3. 10th of April, small hours

Billy waited on the beach as the night wind whipped around him, with only the barest sliver of moonlight to see by. His arms were crossed over his chest against the cold as he waited in silence with his horse, as he had last night and the night before. His days had been spent doing his best to stay out of sight, should a wandering ship or farmer spot him, though so far all he'd seen were a few curious goats. His horse nickered beside him, tossing its head, and Billy patted its neck, not sure if he was soothing the animal or his own self. Anxiety gnawed at his gut. He had to know what had happened, whether this war was still breathing. All the hiding and waiting with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him was starting to make him antsy.

By all accounts, Flint should have come last night. They had scheduled this meeting hastily before Flint had cast off to lead the Governor's fleet and Hornigold's militia into the fight on the maroon's island. He had to come tonight. Tomorrow, the moonlight would be too strong, and the risk of either of their parties being spotted on the coast would be far too great to chance a rendezvous. Maybe Flint had decided the meeting was too risky? The cove was practically on the opposite side of the island as Nassau, but still, New Providence Island was only about forty miles wide, and any enemy ship coming near it at all was risky... Flint needed the report of goings on in town, though, same as Billy needed to know what had happened out there. If he didn't show up tonight, it would be more likely Flint was dead. "Jesus," Billy muttered to himself, folding his arms tight around himself once again. What if word of _that_ had reached the harbor while he had been busy trying to hide from some fucking goats? He shook his head. The captain _would_ come tonight. Flint was now one of the last great pirate captains of Nassau, and more important to this fight than he had ever been, with Vane dead. If the Walrus didn't return, they wouldn't have a prayer in keeping Nassau. If Flint had not survived the battle, if Hornigold _had_ survived, if Rogers' fleet remained whole, if the Spaniards had entered the fray, if, if, if. Billy sighed, shaking his head. He'd never been a gambler, had never understood the rush some men got from those moments of uncertainty. Their odds in this fight were far too small. That being said, he was fucking done letting the crown win by default.

 _There_. Just a speck, maybe a natural point in the dark, maybe nothing. Billy squinted at it, holding his breath. No, definitely not his imagination, something was out there, alright, and coming closer. Slowly but surely, shapes formed in the distant dark. A rowboat was making its way to the shore, with three men aboard. Billy tensed, and flexed his hands, one going to the pistol on his hip, the other his cutlass. His blood roared in his ears, same as it did just before boarding a prize. The little boat was closer now. Finally, Billy could see them, and he nearly sagged with relief. Captain Flint and Jack Rackham pulled the boat a little ways up the sand, and made their approach, scanning the dark coast warily. When he recognized the third in their party, the hair on his neck flew right back up in alarm. Blackbeard himself was splashing through the sea foam behind them.

Forcing himself to relax, Billy began trudging toward the men, ready to deliver the answer to the question no doubt burning in these men's minds: what had happened to Vane. He stopped, tensing once again. He had expected Flint, and maybe Silver, not this trio. Not only did he have to inform his captain of his failure to rescue Charles Vane, he had to tell Jack Rackham of the death of his close ally and friend. He had to look Edward _fucking_ Teach in the eye and tell him he had failed to save the man all knew he considered a son. Billy wasn't too worried about Rackham's reaction. Rackham was a clever man, and even if he did lash out, not much in a one-to-one fight anyway. Everyone knew Bonny was the fighter of the pair, and she was nowhere to be seen. Blackbeard was a different matter. It was widely assumed the man was more than a touch insane, and Billy had seen for himself the demonic ferocity with which he fought. Blackbeard was capable of killing a man for simply not liking the look of him. For news like this, should that mad rage be turned his way... Billy steeled himself, ready for a fight, if it came to it. He directed his gaze to Flint. "Captain. I'm sorry. Vane's--"

"We already know," Flint interrupted him in a hushed tone, and Billy barely managed to keep from reacting as a wave of relief flooded him. "Teach got word at Ocracoke. Found us, joined the cause." Flint nodded at the named man, who gave no reaction, merely watched everyone with his arms crossed, and his chin tucked into his chest. Rackham's expression was harder than Billy'd ever seen on the perpetually amused man. Captain Flint continued. "Hornigold's dead. With him gone, the militia will soon fall apart. We saw what's left of Rogers' fleet yesterday, should be limping back to port tomorrow. We should have some time before they're at full strength again." Flint recounted the details and casualties of the battle, Teach and Rackham filling in about the fight at sea. In a particular stroke of luck, they'd even managed to take one ship, and with it sink another. Rackham seemed to take great relish in the telling of that. Billy suspected that even with everything that had happened, the man was probably elated to finally get tales of his own exploits into circulation. Overall, their own losses were great, but England's were greater still. The thought that England could _afford_ to loose a lot more than they could occurred to Billy, but he kept it to himself. Finally, Flint nodded at Billy, asking, "What news?"

Billy almost stood to attention at the commanding tone before he remembered that he was a _fucking_ pirate. He crossed his arms over his chest again and recounted Throckmorton's death, which crews might be swayed to move against the governor, and the propaganda stream Billy had started to manufacture. Teach laughed out loud at the black spot, saying "There's no way Rogers'll actually believe that shit. For fuck's sake, when Avery decided he wanted a man dead, he didn't fucking warn him about it." Billy shrugged a bit. It didn't matter what Rogers believed. It was the _story_ of it that was important, that the story would be whispered about later, and men would laugh it off, but alone they might just feel an itch between their shoulders, and maybe then they might wonder as to just how far in that book of names Long John Silver had gotten yet... Billy watched Flint's face closely for any reaction as he detailed the coronation of Long John Silver, but the captain revealed nothing. Teach frowned silently at it, but Rackham nodded sagely. "Smart. Silver is a true unknown factor. Whatever they imagine him to be is likely to be far worse than anything we could come up with."

Teach grunted. "It's a fucking stupid name, too," he growled. "Who'll ever be scared of a name like Long John?"

"Better than just saying what color his beard is, I'd say," Billy quipped without thought. He paused then, and blinked, surprised by his own misstep, his eyes flicking from the irritated expression on Flint's face to the surprised look on Rackham's. Billy swallowed hard at the dark look Teach directed his way. Just because Teach hadn't tried to kill him didn't mean he would not, should it strike his fancy. Billy licked his lips and promptly changed the subject. "One problem. Information from the brothel's dried up. The madam's on to Featherstone's girl. Him too, like as not. Max hasn't moved on them, but we may need to get them out, before she does."

"She won't," Rackham chimed in, his tone precise as usual. "Max intends to be on the winning side of this war. She will be sure she cannot be implicated, but she won't make any major moves while the odds are running even. Besides, removing either of them will only confirm any suspicions." He stroked his mustache as he thought, before he continued. "No, let's leave Featherstone where he is, for now. He may look a simple man, but he's more clever than he looks. In any case, he'll not leave Idelle behind, and any attempt at extricating her from the brothel likely would agitate Max. Should things continue going our direction, she could decide to align with us, and she'll bring parts of the street we cannot possibly hope to win with ghost stories alone."

Billy nodded at that. Rackham certainly knew that lot better than he did. They proceeded then to line out the rough plan for the next phase of their war. It was decided the three captains would continue to reave the various coasts around Nassau. Flint would worry the governor's supply lines and keep what was left of the fleet busy, with Rackham's assistance, in command of the newly commandeered ship. Teach would range wider, deploying the other ships of their fleet against British and Spanish alike, seeding fear of the pirates of Nassau across the West Indies and collecting supplies and funds from prize ships. Should reinforcements from the colonies try to reach the island, Teach would intercede. Ideally, these actions alone would exhaust the British, and convince them to give up the colony once again as a lost cause. To further matters, Billy would continue agitating the people of the island, and scaring the new ruling class with the undying ghosts of Nassau's pirating past. He was also to begin building a network of intelligence, both in town and across the interior of the island, if it could be managed. Memory of how Vane had taken the fort by coming through the island's interior still burned bright, and no one wanted to see the governor secreting more soldiers into Nassau that way. Teach supplied the name of his agent, and instructions on securing his cooperation. "See about finding what remains of Mr. Scott's network in town," Flint instructed. "Madi and her mother aren't entirely sure how extensive his network actually is. It's possible they have more weapons cached about the island, or routes in and out we could use. They could prove to be useful for gathering information, as well. There's a woman who works in the kitchen, at the inn, Eme. Start with her." With that, Captain Flint nodded to the other men. "We should go."

Billy stepped forward quickly, not entirely sure if or how this information could fit into anything. "Captain, there's something else you ought to know." Flint turned back around, and Billy swallowed, looking at the other men. "Something of a more personal matter." Flint eyed Billy, then the two other pirate captains, before nodding slightly. Silently, he strode down the beach, downwind of the other men. Billy thrust his horse's reins at Rackham and followed quickly, before the man had a chance to protest. Once they were out of earshot, Flint turned to the younger man, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised in question.

Billy gave one last glance back at Teach and Rackham watching them up the beach. Best to be quick. Billy leaned down a little, and in a quiet rush said, "Lord Ashe's daughter is alive. She's in Nassau."

Surprise flashed in Flint's eyes for an instant, before he slammed a neutral expression back firmly into place. His eyes flickered back up the beach to the other men, then back at Billy. He turned a little more from the other captains. Not looking at Billy, he harshly whispered, "Where?"

"Works for the milliner. Widow, named Thwaites." Billy proceeded to relay a very brief explanation of Abigail's loss of fortune. When he had finished the telling, Flint sighed, his brow furrowed, as always. "Miranda was always fond of Abigail," he said, his voice sounding far away. Finally looking up at Billy, he added, "Do what you can to keep her out of harm's way, but do not compromise the greater goal."

Billy blinked in surprise. That was it? He stared at the captain, not sure what to say.

Flint's brow furrowed further as he took in Billy's silence, and he shook his head a little. "What?" He waited, his patience clearly waning.

Billy continued to stare at his captain for a moment. Truth be told, Billy wasn't sure what he'd expected from the captain, regarding Miss Ashe. "I don't know," he said finally.

Flint raised an eyebrow and stared at him, unconvinced by the lame reply. Finally, he sighed in exasperation, turning to stalk off. "Billy, we don't have time for this."

Billy grimaced. May as well have it out then. "It's just... Look, she's lost her whole fucking life. Don't you feel like you owe her something? Captain, you _killed_ her father."

In a flash, Flint turned to ice. Instinctually, Billy wanted to step back from the force of that gaze, but he forced himself to remain still. The pirate captain turned back toward him until he was facing him squarely. "Yes, I killed Peter," Flint said slowly. "And given the choice, I'd do it again, and again, and again. I took a huge risk, and returned his daughter to him, and no, maybe it wasn't exactly altruistic, but it was a _great_ risk nonetheless. And how did he repay me? With cowardice and blood." Flint's voice remained quiet, and it trembled with barely restrained anger as he spoke. Flint's eyes were colder than Billy had ever seen as the captain glared at him. "You think it's the kidnapping alone, that stole that girl's life?" he asked incredulously. "That's part of it, make no mistake, but nothing a girl like her couldn't have come back from. Even as poor as a mouse, you forget, Abigail Ashe is the daughter of a fucking _lord_ , and there are plenty of people for whom that means much more than life itself." The captain shook his head. "No, Billy. It was the journal that pushed her beyond redemption. And just _who_  gave the journal to Vane? That wasn't his style, too calculated for Vane. So, who could've told him how useful that girl's words could be, read out loud at that farce of a trial?" Flint sneered at him, and Billy swallowed, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. "Yes, Billy, I killed her father. But you will remember you played your part in her downfall, same as I."

Billy stared without seeing. He felt the terrible weight of the truth in the captain's words settle on him. Billy had been the one tasked with the confiscation of the journal Abigail Ashe had kept while she sailed with Flint's crew to Charlestown. He had meant to burn it immediately, but no sooner had their boat begun to row in to the harbor, had Billy found himself devouring the young woman's careful musings. He had then secreted the volume into the captain's cabin instead of burning it, telling himself that really the captain ought to read the thing first anyway, not wanting to admit he didn't think he could bring himself to set fire to it, really not wanting to think about why her understanding perspective on his and his brothers' lives meant so much to him, personally. Then, the ship was attacked, and later news of Flint's arrest arrived. Coupled with Charles Vane rescue plan, Billy saw that her words were the key to everyone's escape from Charlestown. At his father's knee, Billy had learned how to steer a mob, and it was the mob's curiosity about the governor's kidnapped daughter that bought them the time needed to build their escape. At the time, Billy hadn't considered what those musings made public could do to Abigail herself. As Billy had explained to Vane just what Abigail had written in that volume, a knowing look had dawned on Vane's face as he watched Billy speak, and he could recall how hard it had been not to squirm beneath that gaze. It had taken every ounce of will he could muster not to try to deny what Vane so obviously assumed. Even now, he wanted to speak, explain the necessity of his actions, but he knew it could never change things. Billy couldn't tell if he wanted to scream or weep, but he would betray no weakness, so he simply concentrated on keeping his breathing even, and stared at his captain. He had done what he had done, and in Abigail's own words, he would live with it.

The crystallized anger in Captain Flint seemed to leech away as quickly as it had consumed him. For an instant, in the wake of that dreadful fury, other emotions became visible in the older man's eyes. Flint looked as if he wanted to say something, but in another instant, it was all gone, Flint's iron control regained once again. The pirate captain sighed, looking his first mate up and down in a measuring fashion. "You did what was necessary, Billy. We all do what's necessary." Flint turned away, marching back up the coast to the other waiting captains. "We'll get word into town when we can. Don't come back here."

When Billy didn't walk back over to the other men with Flint, Rackham approached him quickly, and shoved the horse's reins back into his loose hands. Rackham eyed him a moment, before asking suddenly, "What exactly were his last words? Charles, I mean."

Billy blinked at the man, his mind sluggish. Rackham waved a bit before adding, "After the part about not being able to hang us all. Teach's man mentioned him saying something else, but he didn't say what." Rackham waited expectantly.

Billy thought for a moment "Pretty sure it was 'Get on with it, motherfucker.'"

Rackham glanced down as he snorted a small laugh at that. "Yes, that sounds about right." He eyed Billy for a moment more. "Right, well." He nodded quickly, and strode off.

Billy watched as the men pushed the rowboat into the water and slip away into the dark. He stood on the beach for a long time, long after the boat had faded into the blackness. He welcomed the quiet dark that engulfed him. After some time, Billy finally turned, mounted his horse, and began the long, lonely ride back to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback, y'all sure know how to make someone feel welcome :D had some groundwork to do here, sorry if it's a bit dull. We'll get back to Abigail with the next one.


	4. 14th of April, late morning

The first day and night of the storm had been relentless. The wind had howled like so many unearthly beasts, and rain had fallen in a torrent so unyielding, Abigail had thought it might drown the entire island if it continued. Her instinct was that this storm must be a hurricane, her father having written her about them and the amount of damage they could wreak upon a fledgling colony. When she said as much to Mrs. Thwaites, the old woman had laughed in a good-natured way, and looking out the window upon an ominously swaying palm, said "My dear girl, this is merely a passing squad. When a true hurricane does come through, you'll know it." They watched the tree crash down onto the empty stable across the street, completely uprooted by the pounding winds, and Abigail felt a knot in her stomach to think that this storm could be considered such a trifling thing.

They had awoken to a dismal morning, featuring pale sunlight diffused by a thick carpet of gray clouds. To Abigail's relief, the winds had subsided some, and the rain had lessened, but the storm was not over yet. It now came in peculiar intervals, alternating regularly from the barest misting to a true downpour. Aside from the stable, and a few other downed trees they could see from the shop, it looked as if Nassau had escaped the storm more or less unscathed. It was not until the next day that people began to venture out in earnest again, between strong bouts of rain to go about their lives once again.

The streets were intensely crowded as every manner of person in Nassau hurried to complete their business before the storm descended once again, Abigail included. Forced to wind her way through the knots of people clogging the town's narrow streets, she found herself to be in a frankly abysmal frame of mind. Her foul mood was not merely a result of the weather, however. A careless messenger on horseback had gone careening past just when she had been exiting a shop, and while Abigail had at least saved her shopping from spilling when she jumped back, the horse had thundered through a massive puddle as it passed, leaving her skirts, stockings, and shoes thoroughly soaked. She had done her best to wring her skirts dry, but each subsequent squishy step only added to her irritation. Shuddering a bit from the awful sensation, she idly thought that there were few things in the world quite so heinous as wet stockings. She thought the sensation might be lessened if she slowed her pace, but she still had to stop by the tailor's before returning to the millinery, and she did not believe the break in the storm could hold much longer.

Reaching the square in front of the once-grand governor's house, Abigail almost groaned. There were throngs of people still milling about, many glancing periodically at the house. She came to a halt at the edge of the square, trying to see the best path through before she continued. Grumpily, she wondered how many people were simply dawdling, waiting to see if the ruling regime would finally give an official account of what had happened in the confrontation between the governor's forces and the pirates who remained at large.

Rumors and whispers had been flying through the streets ever since what was left of the fleet had returned to harbor four days ago, and each story was wilder than the last. The day before the storm, Abigail had overheard a merchant vessel's cabin boy swearing that the pirate fleet had been crushed, and all the surviving rebels shipped off to London for trial. The day before that, a toothless fishwife had conspiratorially whispered that it was the governor's forces that had been defeated, and that the governor had fled to the northern colonies in the night. Based on the fact that the fleet had returned noticeably short a few ships, Abigail leaned towards the fishwife's version of events. Even so, she could not believe the defeat to be so decisive that it might dislodge Governor Rogers from Nassau any time soon.

Without warning, an excited buzz rippled through the crowd,, and people began to press forward, closer to the house. An officer had emerged from the house, and was now beginning to speak, though Abigail could barely hear him over the growing crowd. The officer was not Captain Hornigold. That was a surprise. The pirate captain turned pirate hunter had always delivered the governor's missives, before now. _He must have been killed_ , Abigail thought, and the realization made her stop in her tracks. Not that she had ever met the man, but for that to be her first thought on his unexpected absence left her feeling cold, all the same. As soon as the officer had appeared, more people had materialized out of the woodworks of the surrounding buildings, pressing together and calling out their own questions over the officer's voice. As the mob pushed forward, Abigail found herself being swept into the crowd’s center, much to her dismay, forced to go with the crowd's momentum, or risk being trampled in their inexorable march. Once the mob stopped pressing inward, Abigail began to slowly push back the way she had come, stepping lightly and muttering apologies as she went. Between her sopping skirts and this abysmal weather, Abigail was absolutely in no mood for the fresh aggravation picking her way out of this mob was making.

Abigail stalled as she tried to spot the best path around a particularly tight knot of women, and she caught a few of the officer’s words as she did. "—led by James Flint and Edward Teach have indeed been repelled from Nassau’s waters, with few losses to naval and militia forces. Ten men have been captured, and will be charged with high treason, piracy, and murder. Their trials will be scheduled in due course." Abigail glanced up at the mention of prisoners, irritation now swallowed by concern. However, the officer said no more of them, even though more than one voice cried out for names of who had been taken. She thought back to the time she had spent on the man-of-war, sailing back to Charlestown. Were any of those sailors among the captured men? It was well known that very few crews had refused to accept the Governor's pardon, and Flint's crew was one of the largest to do so. What about Captain Flint? Surely if he or any captain had been taken, they would have been mentioned by name. What about Billy? Abigail's breath caught for an instant. She quickly began counting how many days it had been since the evening he had walked her back to the shop, trying to remember when exactly the fleet had left. She frowned. The timing did not add up, it was highly unlikely Billy could have been in the fighting. Even though it was the only logical conclusion, Abigail chewed her lip, not quite able to believe it. After all, she had not seen Billy since that night. The crew of the _Walrus_  had pulled off some spectacular feats. Perhaps he had somehow managed to join his crew... 

She shook her head, trying not to let herself dwell on thoughts of Billy or the other captured men. About whether those men would have the same sort of trial that Charles Vane had, that James Flint would have had, had he not escaped Charlestown. She especially tried not to think of how unlikely it was that Ned Low's crew, the men who had kidnapped and tormented her, would ever face trial for their crimes against her, after the governor's amnesty. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. Finally spying an opening, Abigail walked on, the crowd's edge almost in sight. She began to walk a little quicker in anticipation of being free of the mob's oppressive weight around her.

"Where's Hornigold?" a man's voice called loud and clear above the din. Abigail jumped at it, wincing and clapping a hand to her ear instinctively. In keeping with her luck today, the question had been shouted almost directly into her right ear as she had tried to slip by the man who had called out. In her startled pause, the gaps in the crowd filled, blocking her path to freedom. All the vexation Abigail had forgotten in her worry over the captured men surged forward again, and she glowered balefully at the dark-haired man the question had come from. The officer ignored the question entirely, continuing as if no one had heard it, even though the question was now being echoed from others among the crowd. Based on the questioning man’s furrowed brow, and indeed the looks on many faces as the officer carried on, she thought it likely they had drawn the same conclusion she had.

Abigail tried to turn her attention back to finding a way through the crowd, but her eyes kept dragging back to the man who had shouted. She supposed he was good-looking, with dark hair and a closely cropped beard. Seeming to sense her gaze, the man briefly glanced at her, scowling slightly. Upon seeing her however, the scowl melted away, and his bearded face broke into a smile that Abigail was sure the man thought was charming. Objectively,  she had to admit it was. If Abigail had been in a better mood, maybe that would have effected her. As it was, the only effect it had was to make her wonder whether he'd still be smiling if someone shouted in his ear. She averted her gaze quickly, which seemed to only amuse the man, based on how his grin strengthened, and Abigail felt her cheeks begin to warm. Determined not to let this man see that he was having any effect on her whatsoever, Abigail schooled her face into a mask of indifference, restraining any sign of emotion. Finally, she spotted a narrow opening through the last few people. She brushed past the man without a word, heroically resisting a childish urge to 'accidentally' smack him with her shopping as she did so.

With one last pivot, Abigail broke away from the mob, sighing with relief to have open air around her again. She futilely tried adjusting her wet skirts one last time, then redoubled her pace as she made her way back to the shop. The morning was waning fast, and dark clouds were beginning to press ominously on the island once again. In response, the people in the streets slowly began to disperse. As a result, the rest of her journey back to the millinery shop went much quicker, for which Abigail was quite grateful.

When Abigail finally stepped inside the shop, she saw it was empty save a neatly dressed young man snoozing on a spindly chair near their tiny fitting room, his long legs stretched in front of him. She breathed another sigh of relief. The man was likely some lady's escort. The lady in question was likely to be back in the fitting room with Mrs. Thwaites, and therefore unlikely to see her in such an untidy state. Though Abigail knew the milliner would never be angry with her for it, she knew Mrs. Thwaites would neither be pleased to have her assistant seen in such a state by customers. A milliner had to be seen as knowing what the current fashions were, and looking half-drowned was simply never in style. For being considered such a backwater by the mainland colonies, it had surprised Abigail to learn how deeply concerned many of New Providence Island's citizens were with staying up to date with the current trends of Europe. As a result, Mrs. Thwaites' little shop did a thriving business, mostly dealing with the sale of accessories, silks and laces, and some other sundry goods. Mrs. Thwaites also did quite a good bit of sewing, recutting and refitting out-of-style gowns and garments in the current fashions. The little shop had none of the aloof grandeur and needless decor that some of the millinery shops Abigail had visited in Paris and London, and Abigail found she preferred it for its simplicity. The door clattered as Abigail shut it behind her, and almost immediately Mrs. Thwaites' muffled voice sounded from the fitting room at the back of the shop. “Is that you, Abigail?”

"Yes, Mrs. Thwaites," she returned without pause. The dozing man snorted a bit at the shout, opening his eyes blearily and giving the barest sleepy smile and nod before shutting his eyes again. It had taken Abigail some getting used to, the way Mrs. Thwaites would simply shout across the shop. Raising one's voice had always been highly discouraged by every tutor and governess Abigail had ever had. She could never shake the horrible feeling that one of them was going to pop out from behind some corner any second now, aghast to see any pupil of _theirs_ shouting in such an undignified manner. Without pausing, Abigail dropped the shopping behind the shop counter, and made for the stairs that lead up to the living quarters she shared with the milliner.

“Excellent," Mrs. Thwaites called in return. "I need you, come back here at once."

Abigail looked down at her soiled skirts. "Ah, just a moment," she called, and practically flew up the stairs. Abigail had quickly learned that when Mrs. Thwaites said ‘now,’ she meant it. She tore into her small chamber, pulling the stays of her wet dress loose as she walked. She ripped off the muddy stockings, putting her shoes back on her bare feet. There was no time for her petticoats, so once she had wriggled out of the wet dress, she grabbed the first clean dress she could lay her hands and began tugging it over her head in a rush. It was not till it was already on that Abigail registered the color, a rather pale blue. At this point however, she could only hope the dirty water on her petticoats would not seep up to stain the new skirt above them. She grabbed her apron from its peg by the door, and took the steps two at a time on her way back down into the shop.

Still tying her apron strings, Abigail entered the fitting room. It was a small, sparsely furnished room, with a tall screen blocking half the room from sight to allow their customers some privacy when they needed to change. A large mirror dominated the rest of the space, with a small chest of drawers to one side, and another spindly chair to the other. Abigail caught her reflection, and immediately began trying to smooth her mussed hair before anyone noticed her. Mrs. Thwaites was muttering to herself as per usual, a habit the old woman chalked up to living alone for so long. She was taking the measurements of a lovely young lady, about Abigail’s own age. Upon seeing their refined customer, Abigail began to feel all the more aware of her sodden petticoats and unruly hair. She squashed an impulse to slink away before the milliner had spied her, standing her ground as she waited for Mrs. Thwaites to address her. The girl turned her head, and regarded Abigail with one perfect eyebrow arched in curiosity. Even standing on a stool with her arms out, the young lady was the picture of elegance; buxom, with deep brown eyes, and perfectly coiffed pale blonde hair. Remembering her lower social standing at the last second, Abigail bobbed the tiniest of curtsies to the girl, still waiting for the milliner to acknowledge her presence.

Turning, Mrs. Thwaites smiled when she saw her. “Ah, I was starting to wonder where you had gotten to.” Abigail could not help but smile back. Euphemia Thwaites was by no means a great beauty, nor did she have the look of one who had been a beauty in the bloom of her youth. The milliner was tall and rail-thin, and she had a long and angular face to match, which she coated liberally with powder and rouge. The white powder combined with her pale gray eyes gave the old woman a striking, sometimes ghostly look. In truth, the old woman could be rather intimidating. But Mrs. Thwaites also had a warm, kind smile that made her formidable demeanor easy enough to forget. “Miss Beaumont here wishes to have a few gowns made over. Go on and pin the hem of the skirt while I go and write down these measurements.” Abigail nodded, and Mrs. Thwaites smile renewed for a moment before fading as she turned away. The milliner looked back at Miss Beaumont for a moment, now all haughty coolness. “And you can put your arms down now." Mrs. Thwaites strode away with that, but Abigail heard the old woman adding under her breath, "No need to stand around like a scarecrow.” Miss Beaumont blinked, no doubt unused to being addressed so curtly by a merchant, and let her arms fall as the older woman swept from the room.

Not knowing what to say, Abigail bobbed another quick curtsy, to which Miss Beaumont said nothing, regarding her once again with a curious eye that swept Abigail up and down. Hoping that she would not have to make small talk, Abigail set to work. She picked up a pin cushion from the small table, and kneeled down, her skirts squishing unpleasantly. She was about a third of the way around the voluminous skirt when Miss Beaumont suddenly broke the silence. “You are Abigail Ashe, are you not?”

Abigail glanced up, and Miss Beaumont was staring down at her, blinking owlishly. “Yes, miss,” Abigail replied politely, scooting a little to place the next few pins.

“And your father was Lord Peter Ashe, of Charlestown?”

Abigail stiffened a little, but barely paused. She did not really care to talk about her father with a person she did not know. Most of the time, she preferred not to talk about him at all. Even though it had been some time, her father's death was still fresh in her mind, and her emotions about him were complicated, and often at odds with each other. Unfortunately, Abigail could not see a way to avoid such a direct question, and so curtly replied, "Yes, miss." Hoping to make an end to the conversation, Abigail added, "Please keep your head up miss, otherwise the skirt's hem may not be straight."

“My word, how dreadful,” Miss Beaumont exclaimed, and Abigail glanced up at her, not sure if that was for her skirt or Abigail's parentage. “My condolences for your loss, of course,” Miss Beaumont added, straightening her neck. Abigail murmured her gratitude, and kept on pinning, working at a faster pace than she had before the girl opened her mouth. “Well, we heard that Lord Ashe’s estate was left in shambles, but we never thought it was as bad as _this_.” She gestured about the shop as she spoke, and something in her tone betrayed that the she thought it quite shabby. Abigail flushed a bit, but said nothing. When Abigail did not respond, Miss Beaumont continued. "Your father actually wrote to mine, before he died. He had wanted to discuss a marriage between you and my brother." Abigail hummed a bit, hoping Miss Beaumont would take her unenthusiastic response as a hint. The girl seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice though. “Papa was agreeable at first, you know. It would have made a good connection, really, having a governor for an in-law. But of course, he was quite glad he had waited to send his reply when we got word of all that nasty business between you and those pirates." Miss Beaumont wrinkled her dainty nose at the mention, and Abigail clenched her fist around the pin cushion with the effort it took not to stab the young lady with a pin. "Nothing against you _personally_ , of course, but after all that, there was simply no way we could allow ourselves to be associated with you. And here you are in Nassau, all the same. It’s rather funny, how things turn out sometimes, is it not?”

"Yes, miss," Abigail said tersely. If the young man in question had as much tact as his sister, Abigail considered she had come out rather ahead, all things considered. She scooted again, nearly done pinning the hem, praying that the girl would grow bored of the one-sided conversation.

"And you've heard the news by now, no doubt?" Miss Beaumont continued. "About the battle? Father had it the other night, from the governor himself, no less. Ten pirates, captured! How positively dreadful! Well, I should think you of all people should be pleased to hear a few less pirates are roaming free." Abigail took a few deep breaths, trying to retain the appearance of calm. "The ones to refuse pardons must be the worst of the lot, after all. They're probably just too lazy or wicked to try for any sort of honest labor in the king's service, and--"

"Shut up." The words had burst out of Abigail unbidden, surprising her with the amount of vehemence laced in them. Miss Beaumont did so, and stared down at Abigail in affronted alarm. On an average day, Abigail felt she would have been able to absorb this girl's blathering without comment, but Miss Beaumont had unwittingly managed to press each and every sore point in Abigail's mind. This idiot girl did not know anything about anything, and here Abigail was forced to politely listen to this ignorant fool's yammering, all because good manners dictated it. After everything else today, it was all just too much. Now she had spoken, it seemed she could not stop herself. Abigail straightened up, furious. "Any person with a drop of sense knows that when one is ignorant on a subject, it is best to keep silent. Your knowledge is obviously deficient in these matters, so I would suggest you consider saying less in the future." Abigail stared at the young lady, the fire of her courage dying as quickly as it had flared, but she raised her chin anyway, almost daring Miss Beaumont to respond. Miss Beaumont still had not recovered, her pretty mouth forming a perfect 'o' in her shock.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Mrs. Thwaites announced as she reentered the fitting room. Quickly, the milliner assessed the room, taking in Abigail's defiant expression and Miss Beaumont’s shocked face. The milliner's eyebrows rose so high they threatened to touch her hairline. She turned to Abigail. “Go mind the front, Abigail. I’ll finish up back here.” In the face of Mrs. Thwaites' ire, Abigail could only manage the barest of meek nods. Cheeks burning, she dropped a curtsy to Miss Beaumont, and walked out to the front room as quickly as she could without running. Thankfully, the front remained deserted save the Miss Beaumont's napping escort, who either had not awoken, or was feigning sleep at Abigail's sudden entrance. Abigail did not care which it was, only that he did not try to speak to her. She stepped behind the counter that wrapped half the store, and took a seat near the window. Abigail was exhausted, all her energy seemed to have fled in the wake of her outburst. She was almost glad of the storm bands still rolling in. Maybe Mrs. Thwaites would close the shop early. With all her heart, Abigail was longing for this day to simply end already.

Some time later, Mrs. Thwaites emerged with the dress Miss Beaumont had been wearing draped over an arm, followed by Miss Beaumont herself, who seemed to have had her feathers smoothed by Mrs. Thwaites pleasant demeanor. The man finally stirred at the young lady's entrance, unfolding himself from the chair and heading to the door to wait for her. The milliner draped the dress over the counter with a few others, and escorted the young lady to the front of the store, all the while rattling off the different things that would be done to the gowns and when Miss Beaumont could expect them. Abigail prayed she would not have to say anything more, she did not think she would be able to hold her tongue should the girl make any other remarks about her ‘dreadful situation.’ Mercifully, Mrs. Thwaites engaged Miss Beaumont’s attention the entire time. Chatting the all the while, the milliner escorted the young lady all the way to the door. The man opened the door for Miss Beaumont, gave a small bow to Abigail and Mrs. Thwaites, and exited behind her.

Mrs. Thwaites watched the pair depart, no doubt headed back to the Beaumont family's plantation in the island's interior. "Head full of nothing but fluff, that one," she muttered, frowning. Mrs. Thwaites gave Abigail a quick sidelong glance. For her part, Abigail merely stared out the window. She was beginning to suspect that while Mrs. Thwaites customers simply accepted the widow was a bit absentminded, in truth the woman was more aware than she let on. Abigail suspected the milliner simply liked to use the excuse of being a batty old lady to say whatever she wished, whenever she wished to.

They stood in silence, lost in thought as they stared out at the dark clouds pressing in. Mrs. Thwaites sighed. "Well, I am glad that's over and done. I can't think anyone else should be coming by until the storm has passed again." She locked the door, and turned to Abigail, smiling amiably, Abigail's outburst with Miss Beaumont seemingly forgotten. "Let's tidy up the shop, and we'll have some tea. You can tell me about town, and what on earth has happened to your skirt." She gestured down, and Abigail looked to see dark stains blooming around her knees through her apron, and along her skirt's hem. Mrs. Thwaites stepped behind the counter, shuffling boxes and folding scraps of fabric to return to their rightful places after Miss Beaumont's consultation. "Oh, and before I forget," the milliner added suddenly, stopping what she was doing to look at Abigail. "What did Mr. DuBois say about helping us tomorrow when you stopped by?"

Abigail dropped the swatch she had been folding. _Fuck_ , she thought, and blushed a bit at the language, even if it was only in her head. After her skirts, and the crowds, and the news of the battle and its prisoners, Abigail had entirely forgotten to stop by the tailor's shop. She had been supposed to see if Mr. DuBois might be willing to assist Mrs. Thwaites in some of the work they had taken on recently. Apparently, some part of Abigail's thoughts was apparent on her face, and Mrs. Thwaites looked back at her assistant with concern. Eyes down, Abigail made her confession to the milliner, all the morning's goings-on spilling out alongside it.

When Abigail had finished, the old woman clucked sympathetically. "Oh, my dear girl. I do wish I could tell you to leave it till tomorrow, but I'm afraid it just cannot wait, not with these new gowns for the Beaumont girl as well. You know her family makes up some of our best customers, we can't disappoint them." When Abigail's face did not change, Mrs. Thwaites walked over, and wrapped an arm around Abigail's shoulders, squeezing her tightly. "I know, it's been a trying day, my dear." The milliner smiled sympathetically as she looked at her, and Abigail did her best to return it, though she knew the attempt was watery. "How about this?" the old woman suggested. "While you run over to Mr. DuBois', I shall close up the shop, and start heating some water for you to have a nice warm bath when you get back, hm? Just the thing for a day like today, I always say."

Abigail did smile at that, albeit weakly. "That would be wonderful, ma'am." Her employer gave her one last squeeze before releasing her, and Abigail stepped over to a narrow mirror in the corner of the shop, reaching behind her back to untie her apron. Mrs. Thwaites plucked the garment from her hands, and stepped away to hang it up. Abigail did her best to straighten her damp skirts and smooth out her dark hair, though she knew the whole thing was a lost cause. Looking at her reflection, Abigail sighed a little, touching her strong chin for a moment, remembering Miss Beaumont's delicate features with a pang. Abigail was quite aware that she was no great beauty herself, but she usually considered herself to be pretty enough, at least. She had her father's strong jaw and nose, but her mother's dark eyes and fine hair to make up for those features. At the moment however, with her hair a mess and mud stains on her skirts completing the picture, Abigail could not help but feel a little plain.

"You had better step lively, Abigail, dear," Mrs. Thwaites called, snapping Abigail out of her reverie. "The weather shan't hold for long." After one final attempt to do something about her hair, Abigail gave up, called out a good-bye to the milliner, and stepped out of the shop into the empty street.

Even with a storm rolling in, it was strange to see the street so deserted. She paused for a moment, and looked across the road. The street was empty, but she could have sworn she had seen someone ducking into the shadows of the ruined stable. She squinted around the downed palm tree and into the shadowy building for a moment, but saw no more movement. Abigail glanced up at the heavy clouds and frowned. It was probably just the storm making her nervous. She really did need to get a move on. Most likely it was just a cat or some such thing, nothing to worry over. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she picked up her skirts and started down the road.

* * *

 

Billy shrunk further back into the recesses of the stable across the way from the millinery shop, holding his breath. He hadn't expected Abigail to suddenly pop out of the shop this time of day, not with this storm band looming so ominously. She looked at the stable for a moment, but then shook her head and walked off, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Billy had quickly given up trying to convince himself that his meanderings past the millinery shop were only happenstance, but that didn't mean he was exactly keen to have Abigail catch him at it. In truth, since the meeting with Flint five days ago, Billy had been unable to get the young lady out of his head for very long. A nagging voice in the back of his head muttered about it being a bit longer than that, but Billy ignored it with practiced ease.

When he had first gotten back to town, he had found excuses to come this way. The first had been the only good one, he was meeting with Captain Bridge of the _Demeter_ , who had been sworn to Flint and Vane's initial consortium. Vane's trial had not set well with her crew, and this road was as good as any to get to the beach where they had made their camp. He had convinced them to vote on the matter, and it was decided when the storms cleared they would slip away and join Flint's fleet. He'd caught a bare glimpse of Abigail in the window that day, but hadn't stayed to observe, since he needed to try and talk Eme at the inn into trusting him (a fruitless endeavor, now three visits later). The next day, Governor Rogers' ships had finally limped back to port, and Billy had decided to go down to the docks with Jacob to collect and seed rumors about the fight at the maroon's island. He had deliberately taken a wrong turn on his way back, and lingered a few moments, spying Abigail for a moment as she held the shop door for an elderly customer. Then the storm had hit, and same as the rest of the island, Billy and his compatriots had sequestered themselves to their quarters to wait it out.

Today, Billy had decided he should go and check in on the crew of the _Demeter_ , to see that they had weathered the storm. It was a poor excuse, as any crew worth its salt knew how to handle weather like this at sea or on land, but it had been the best he could come up with to come this far into town. Much to his dismay, Ben had decided to tag along, and Billy had been unable to come up with a good reason for him not to. When they'd reached the street, Billy had paused at the ruined stable, pretending to be looking at the damage. With Ben staring at him in confusion, Billy had given up the pretense, and simply told him to go back to the cottage on his own before the storm started, and stationed himself in a patch of shadow in the empty stable, the stablehands having moved the horses inland before the storm had hit. He had been watching the millinery shop's windows in silence since, watched as Abigail had returned from her errands, and glaring hard when a young man spied him while following a young lady out of the shop. Luckily for him, between the Governor's pardon putting many pirates out of work and the squall passing through, Nassau was full of idle sailors at the moment, giving Billy some cover by sheer numbers. Still, it was a risk, coming to the same place so often, but he couldn't seem to stop himself either. He knew Jacob Garrett had picked up the pattern, and while he knew Garrett must find the excursion odd, he had thankfully not asked him any questions about it. After that brilliant display of subtlety, Ben would pick it up as well, and now all Billy could do was hope Ben took the same approach Garrett did.

Before the young man's exit, Billy finally spotted Abigail taking a seat near the front window where he could see her. In the few glances he'd collected in the past few days, she seemed content enough, and he would have left after a few minutes observation, but today she looked unhappy, even angry. He had been so wrapped up in his consideration of this fact, it had made him too slow to duck away completely before Abigail could catch any sight of him when she suddenly exited. Watching her shrinking form, Billy couldn't help but grimace as Flint's words echoed in his mind again, as they had each day since he had heard them. _You will remember you played your part in her downfall, same as I_. The past few days had given Billy time to reflect on that conversation, and a now-familiar guilt simmered inside him as he remembered it. He didn't regret his actions in Charlestown. Given the choice again, he'd do the exact same thing. Exposing the journal had bought them the time they needed to get Flint back and escape the harbor. It was just the part where Abigail had to pay the price for that escape that didn't sit too well with him.

Billy looked up at the roiling clouds. It was likely only a passing squall, but it could be a bad one as well. This one looked as if it might even produce some lightning, highly unusual for a any hurricane, especially one so weak as this. He ought to get back to the cottage, before the storm started up again in earnest. He looked down the road Abigail had disappeared on. _Wonder where she's off to, anyway_ , he thought before shaking his head. "None of my business," he muttered to himself, quite glad none of the stablehands were near to see or hear him. Like a needle on a compass though, his gaze turned back down the road. Billy grimaced, not liking his decision one bit, but he stepped out under the clouds and set off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Abigail and the terrible, no good, very bad day. This chapter was getting crazy long, so I've chopped it into two parts. Second part should be up soon. I've actually written this chapter like five times now, but I think I've got it now, sorry it took so long. Miss Beaumont was really hard to figure, I had her as a bit of a Regina George, but that was too much, and made Abigail so weak, so I switched her to be more just tactless and oblivious. And if anyone's interested, here's an article on hurricanes in the colonies I looked at while writing this, could be useful. http://hbswk.hbs.edu/archive/4862.html (ps I just figured out how to reply to comments, I'm sort of new to putting things on the internet, sorry)
> 
> 122116: updated some verbiage, etcetera. Nothing extreme. Next part will be up soon, sorry for the delay, life and what not.


	5. 14th of April, afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of the previous chapter.

When the first fat drop of rain fell on Abigail's arm, she immediately began cursing her own foolhardiness. Mr. DuBois had tried to convince her to wait out the storm at his shop, but after the day she had had, the desire for her own comfortable surroundings had just been too much for Abigail to resist. Although the clouds hung dark and low, she had been convinced that if she hurried, she could stay a few steps ahead of the rain. Now she was stuck halfway between both, and the heavens would be opening any second. The wind was beginning to pick up again, and Abigail knew she would have to find shelter until the storm had subsided again.

Raindrops began splashing down with increasing frequency, and Abigail looked about the street to see what cover could be had. With a thrill of relief, she recognized the old Guthrie inn on the corner. Abigail had not returned there since she had come back to Nassau, but she knew it was a public house with a good, sturdy roof, and the best option available at the moment. She rushed toward the building, and with the first bit of luck she had had all day, stepped under the shelter of the porch just before the skies split and torrents of rain began crashing to earth.

Abigail stood in the damp doorway, glumly watching the rain fall and thinking about the bath she would not be getting any time soon now. After a momentary sulk, she turned and entered the building. Most of the tables were filled with a wide array of men, talking while hunched over their cups. A few officers glanced up at her, mildly curious to see a woman enter the inn without accompaniment. Abigail swallowed, suddenly nervous. She had not been out for more than errands without Mrs. Thwaites before now. Back in England, many inns and the like would have parlors set aside for ladies traveling unaccompanied, she knew better than to expect such accommodations in Nassau. Unbidden, almost as if out of another life, she remembered something Lady Hamilton had said to her when she had been a very small child: "I have found that when one is afraid, the best course of action one can take is simply to pretend that one is not." Then Lady Hamilton had laughed, and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Sometimes you can even fool yourself into believing it." Taking a deep breath, Abigail kept her chin up as she surveyed the room. There was a tiny table against the far wall, and Abigail delicately picked her way around the tables to seat herself, forcing herself to maintain a serene pace instead of flinging herself at it. Soon enough, the few men that had noted her went back to their drinks without a word, and Abigail finally exhaled in relief.

A dark serving woman wearing a bright headscarf, came to the table after a moment. Abigail blinked in surprise at yet another flash of memory, remembering that the same woman had worked in the kitchen the last time she was here after her escape from Vane's fort. The woman seemed rather busy, though, so Abigail did not mention it, and ordered a drink to pass the time. Now the storm had started, more men began streaming into the inn, and the crowd began to gain volume. There were a number of merchants, farmers, and even a few naval officers, but the vast majority of the men were rough-looking sailors, who roared and howled as loud as the storm outside, at each other and the inn's staff. The serving woman returned with a mug in hand, and almost dropped it as she set it down on the table, turning as she did so to fiercely berate an old sailor who had made a clumsy grab for her bottom as she passed. The sailor guffawed drunkenly, obviously little effected by the serving woman's indignation. After the woman finished her tirade, she turned to Abigail, still visibly furious, silently checking to see there was nothing else she needed. Abigail jerked her head at the lewd man's back, rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh, and gave the woman a small, sympathetic smile. The woman studied her momentarily, then snorted a bit, and returned the small smile with a frustrated one of her own and a tiny shrug. Abigail thanked the woman, and she hurried off to another table.

The cider was not as diluted as she usually took it, but the taste was spicy and sweet, and after spending most of her day damp and chilled, she welcomed the warmth that spread through her as she sipped it. She smiled a bit to herself as she observed the people around her. Seeing where she was now, Abigail could not help but reflect on how much she had changed since she had first boarded the Good Fortune. A year ago, the thought of going much anywhere without a chaperone would have left her weak at the knees. And now, here she was, happily sipping cider alone in a tavern at the edge of the world, surrounded by pirates. _Well, former pirates_ , she corrected herself, remembering the governor's amnesty.

"Hello, there," a voice above her said, interrupting Abigail's thoughts, and causing her to nearly jump right out of her skin in surprise. Momentarily paralyzed, she stared dumbly at the speaker for a moment before she recognized him. It was the dark-haired man from the crowd this morning, who had yelled in her ear. He slid into the chair opposite her, and Abigail felt her wits return with disapproval at the man's assumption.

"You looked like you could use some company," he stated, smiling his charming smile. "We didn't have a chance to get acquainted this morning. My name's Jacob. Jacob Garrett." He stuck his hand out across the table as he spoke. Abigail made no motion towards the hand, and the smile faltered, but only for an instant. "And I have to say, I think I might owe you an apology," he added. "If I caused you any discomfort, this morning. It was completely accidental, I assure you." His hand still hung in the air, and he twitched it upwards a little, as if reminding her it was there.

Abigail found herself more annoyed than she thought she ought to be as she regarded the man before her. It irked her how he had just invited himself to sit down. What if she was waiting for someone? What if she had simply wished to be left alone? After a long moment, Abigail finally shook the offered hand with little grace. It was possible he had only come over to apologize, after all. Maybe if she accepted, he would leave. "Your apology is accepted, Mr. Garrett," she stated, adding the barest smile to take the edge off her frosty tone. After all, it was not his fault that she was in a wretched mood. _Well, not entirely, anyway_. Hopefully he would pick up on this and depart.

Instead, the man's smile renewed, and Abigail's heart sank as she realized Mr. Garrett would not be taking his leave. When Abigail said nothing more, Mr. Garrett took it upon himself to continue the conversation. "I've seen you around, I believe. You work for the milliner, right? Might I ask your name?"

Abigail pursed her lips as she studied the man, still smiling away as if she was not radiating 'go away' with every fiber of her being. She cast her eyes about for any excuse to send him packing, but none appeared in the large crowd. She wondered whether he might leave her to her own company, if she simply asked him to. Based on looks alone, this man seemed decent enough. As she considered her situation, a tiny spark of fear sputtered into life in her belly. The fact was, Abigail did _not_ know this man, but she _did_ know very well just how deceiving appearances could be. From looks alone, one could never know the extent of the madness that had dwelled within Ed Low. And even if the inn was full to bursting with people, Abigail was very much alone among them. She bit her lip as she regarded Mr. Garrett, remembering how there had once been a time when it would have likely never even crossed her mind that a man would ever _not_ behave as a gentleman. Anymore however, these suspicious thoughts were often among the first to occur to her when faced with strangers. Steeling herself, Abigail took a breath to try asking him to leave anyway, but only managed a small alarmed squawk before a new voice rumbled behind her, cutting her off mid-statement. "Fuck off, Jacob."

Her heart racing with renewed vigor, Abigail whipped round in her seat, utterly sick of being startled in this way, but surprise melted her irritation. It was now William "Bones" Manderly standing above her, dripping wet in his too-small coat, and glowering darkly at Mr. Garrett. As if echoing his apparent mood, the howling winds outside shook the inn with renewed force. Relief flooded her, and Abigail smiled to see him, not caring a whit as to when he had arrived, or in what manner. "Mr. Ma--" His eyes flickered to her for only an instant when she began to speak, but in that instant, it occurred to Abigail how it was likely he went by Bones for reasons of his own. "Mr. Bones," she finished weakly, hoping the hitch would be taken as only a stammer by anyone listening. He did not look at her, but continued to stare daggers at the seated man. Abigail glanced back to Mr. Garrett, who had raised his hands in a placating gesture, and was watching Billy as if he were some great predator.

Mr. Garrett tried a weak smile. "Nice to see you, too, Billy," he said genially, but he let it fade quickly when Billy's demeanor did not change. Mr. Garrett's eyes darted to Abigail, searching perhaps for some form of rescue, as she had done earlier, then quickly back to Billy. He seemed to be thinking very hard and very fast. Then a curious expression stole across Mr. Garrett's features for a fleeting instant, almost as if he had just spotted where to pluck to unravel a bad knot. His gaze settled once again on Abigail, and a smile replaced the odd look. "I suppose I should have asked whether you were waiting for someone, miss. It was rude of me to presume. Once again, you have my apologies."

"It's quite alright, Mr. Garrett," Abigail said, her tone now much warmer. She could not help but feel a twinge of shame at momentarily assuming the worst about him. He did seem a nice man, after all. He stood as she spoke, the chair rasping against the floor. He nodded cordially to Billy who gave the tiniest nod in return. With one last smile to Abigail, Jacob Garrett strode away, and melted into the crowd.

Billy followed the other man with his eyes as he disappeared, then after a tense moment finally turned his attention to Abigail, his expression barely softening as he did so. "Ah. Sorry, if I, um, interfered. Seemed like you weren't wanting the attention, though. Jacob can be a bit thick, but he's alright, really. If anyone does bother you while you're here, just get word to me. I'll, uh, I'll set them straight." He looked as if he had more to say, but did not continue. Instead, he nodded stiffly, then turned to go.

In a fit of brazen courage, Abigail drew herself up straight and called his name over the din of the crowd. Billy's shoulders stiffened a little, but he still stopped, turning to look at her once more. Abigail almost lost her nerve under his direct gaze, but remembering Lady Hamilton's advice again, forced herself to press on. "If you are concerned that others might bother me, I would think it might be simpler if you joined me, instead." Billy blinked at the invitation, and frowned. "That is to say... if you would like to, of course," Abigail continued, deflating a bit. Billy made no reply, and finally her courage shriveled and died away. "There is no obligation, of course. It was only a thought." She lowered her eyes, acutely aware of the rush of heat fighting up her face. _Why on earth did I say that_ , she thought wildly. She wanted to shrink away in her mortification, but forced herself to glance up for a moment and smile brightly before dropping her gaze to her drink once again. _Of course he doesn't want to_ , Abigail chastised herself. _There's probably someone waiting for him, he was just trying to be chivalrous._

When she heard the scrape of wood across from her, Abigail looked up to see Billy pulling out the empty seat, peeling the dripping jacket off, and draping it on the back of the chair. He lowered himself into the chair, and looked about the inn, studying the crowd in silence.

"Oh. You-- you really do not have to," Abigail stammered, feeling the start of a blush. "I'll be fine on my own, really, there is no need--"

"I'd like to." Billy still did not look at her. Finishing his observation of the crowd, he hunched over the table, leaning on his thick arms, and proceeded to stare at his hands on the table in front of him.

Abigail blinked again. "Ah," she murmured lamely. She dropped her eyes to the table as well, suddenly very interested in the wood grain patterns as she fought to ignore how warm her face was growing.

* * *

  
Billy stared at his hands as if they were the most interesting things he had ever seen, to keep himself from staring at Abigail. _Fucking Garrett_ , he thought darkly. Billy had not intended Abigail to learn of his presence in the inn when he first spotted her. He had only tailed her to the tailor's shop, God knew why he even did that, and assumed that she would wait out the storm there. Her presence at the inn had been a surprise, and he didn't like the show he'd made with Jacob just now. No one seemed to have noticed, being preoccupied with their own conversation, but there was really no telling what had been observed.

He should've planned this day better. After he'd seen she made it to what he'd thought had been her destination, Billy figured he had enough time to actually do what he'd said he was coming into town for anyway. He had headed back to the beach the _Demeter_ 's crew was camped on. That turned out to be good timing at least, as they were already making ready to set sail, regardless of the squall bearing down on them. Bridge had relayed the news of the Governor's announcement earlier today, and that ten captured pirates would now face trial. To the credit of Captain Bridge and his crew, they were incensed at the news instead of cowed, and had voted to join Flint now, using the storm to discourage pursuit from the weakened Navy and militia.

After giving them the last bearings he had for Flint, and helping them get underway, Billy had realized there was no way he would make it back to the cottage before the storm. Instead, he decided to head for the old Guthrie inn again, and once again try his luck with Eme, who seemed to have largely taken over the inn's day-to-day operation in Eleanor Guthrie's absence. If he hadn't gotten sidetracked, it would have been his fourth attempt to talk Eme into believing he was trustworthy. He suspected the woman was beginning to grow annoyed with him, and Billy had walked in hoping today wouldn't be the day she nodded to her large doorman rather than shaking her head when he showed up. As it was, he hadn't even been able to get her to admit much more than she had vaguely known Mr. Scott, let alone anything about any information network he had built across the island, or remaining weapons caches. But before Billy could spot the wary-eyed woman, he had instead seen none other than Abigail Ashe, sitting in a corner, being chatted up by Jacob fucking Garrett.

Billy had watched the pair for a moment, not sure what to do, or even why he felt he ought to do something. Based on her body language, Abigail didn't seem overly pleased about the situation herself, but Billy couldn't really say for sure. It wasn't as if Garrett was a bad sort, after all. If Abigail asked Garrett to clear off, Garrett would, and based on their last encounter, Billy knew the woman had enough spine to do so if she'd really had enough of his charms. It was the 'if' in the thought that had made Billy continue to watch the pair. Garrett had stuck out a hand over the table, and Billy had found himself frowning. Abigail shook the hand hesitantly, but after a few moments more, an odd look stole across her features, and before Billy even knew what the hell he was doing, he was already looming over the table, loudly telling Jacob to fuck off. It had taken all Billy's willpower not to punch the man in the teeth, right then and there. No, this was not how he'd planned this afternoon going at all.

Eme swished by the table now, looking from Abigail to him, wary as ever. Instead of addressing Billy however, she directed a questioning look at Abigail, flicked her eyes in his direction for an instant, and then continued to stare at Abigail intently. Billy frowned, not even beginning to understand this behavior. In a far corner, he noted Eme's doorman watching as well, and his expression Billy understood perfectly. After a moment, Abigail gave a small "oh," then shook her head with a smile. Now Eme looked to Billy, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched as she studied him. "Ale?" she asked briskly. Billy hoped the surprise didn't show on his face. He knew ale had been hard to come by the last few days, what with Blackbeard pinching the supply lines from the main colonies and England. Most establishments were reserving their stock for those with the most coin. He'd expected to be offered grog at best, and nodded in response with muttered gratitude. Eme strode off, reappearing a few moments later with a tankard which she plonked down unceremoniously before disappearing without a word. Billy frowned after her, unsure if something of importance had just happened, and not liking that he didn't know what it was. He took a drag of the ale, and then went back to staring down at the table.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sound of the storm outside competing with the sound of the crowd inside. Billy glanced up, and saw Abigail was studying her own hands, same as he had been doing. He heaved a small sigh, and straightened up. "Just Billy's fine," he finally said. Abigail looked up at him through dark eyelashes. Billy cleared his throat, and shrugged his shoulders as he continued, unsettled. "It's what everyone calls me. Billy. Makes things simpler."

"I see. Yes. Very well, then. Billy." Abigail cast her eyes down again, her cheeks pink, but he figured that was a result of drink. "I suppose that means you should call me Abigail, then."

Billy frowned. He didn't know much about society ladies, but he knew Abigail had been raised to be one. Names and manners of address were important to them. He suspected she might find it improper, that she must only be offering the familiarity out of politeness, in response to his doing so. "I didn't mean--"

"I would like it very much if you did, Billy." Her voice brooked no argument, but she met his eyes as she spoke, and smiled that small, shy smile of hers. Billy shifted in his seat, feeling worse and worse by the second. She shouldn't smile at him like that, _wouldn't_ smile at him like that, if she only knew what he'd done. She wouldn't even be back on this damn island at all, if there was any fairness in the world. He shifted his weight again, the chair under him creaking as he did so. He sat back for a moment, then pitched forward again, discomfort making him restless.

Abigail was still flushed, but concern was plain in her dark eyes when his roving eyes met hers again. Guilt choked him. She definitely shouldn't look at him like that. Finally, Abigail broke the silence. "It really is alright," she began tentatively. "If you have a previous engagement, or... what I mean is, you have no obligation to me, I assure you."

Fuck. There was nothing for it. Something in her voice broke Billy's resolve to be silent. Abigail would never speak to him again, once she'd heard the truth, but that was really better for her in the long run anyway. Billy settled onto his elbows again, and met Abigail's eyes squarely. He paused, drinking in a fantasy of how nice it would be to forget the rest of the world for a moment, to just sit here with this girl, and just enjoy her shy smiles and pretty blushes. He grimaced, shook his head, and forced himself to speak.

"Look. There's... something you should know. Back in Charlestown. It was my idea. I gave your journal to Vane. I told him what to do at that trial." Billy didn't flinch at his words, or look away as he said them. Abigail had blinked in confusion at the sudden mention of Charlestown, and now her lips were parted ever so slightly with surprise. Billy dredged on, determined to have all of it out. "After you left the ship, I read it. Shouldn't have, but I did. Meant to burn it, but never got the chance before... everything else started." That wasn't entirely accurate, Billy knew, but he thought he could at least spare Abigail that confusion on top of this revelation. "Can't say I'm sorry that I read it, either. We needed to buy time, to get Flint, and get out, and your journal was the best card we could play. I didn't--" he couldn't look at her for this part, he looked back down at his tankard, and lowered his voice even more. "I didn't think about what it'd mean for you, though. You... you didn't deserve it, what happened...well, after."

As much as Billy wanted to say more, to fully express his guilt and regret for what had happened to her since Charlestown, he wouldn't. To apologize would be to ask for her forgiveness, and Billy would not ask that much of her. But now at least, Abigail knew the truth, and she had deserved to know. He risked a quick glance up at her, and was unsurprised to see her staring into the depths of her own mug, her eyes far away. He wished she'd look up. It would have been easier if she had railed against him, screamed, raged. Anger was an emotion he understood.

The silence dragged for several long moments. Finally, Billy sat up straight, fished a few coins out of his trouser pocket and placed them on the table. Before he stood, he took one last, long look at Abigail, her dark eyes still downcast, not bothering to hide his direct gaze. Now he knew he wouldn't be seeing it again, Billy found it easier to admit how much he'd regret not seeing more of her smiles directed at him. After a long moment, he looked away, and began to push back his chair to stand.

Before he had raised himself more than an inch, a soft hand touched his wrist. Billy froze. Her touch was cool and hot at the same time, and he saw Abigail was looking him directly in the eye now, her eyes unreadable. After a short moment frozen in a half crouch, Billy realized he'd stopped breathing. As if only just realizing what she'd done, she pulled her hand back as quickly as she reached out, and Billy breathed again.

Abigail had refused to drop her gaze, and was now sitting up straight with her chin raised. "How many men sailed with you?" she asked. Her voice was clear and concise. Confused, Billy plopped down into his seat again, and simply looked at Abigail, unsure how to proceed. This reaction had not been among the scenarios he had imagined. The moment dragged on, the storm raged outside, and for an instant, Billy thought he saw a flicker of nerves in Abigail's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as he'd spotted it, and perhaps it had never even been there at all. Her voice certainly betrayed no lack of confidence, and in the gap made by his silence, she added to her initial question. "And Captain Vane and his crew joined you, and sailed from Charlestown with you, correct?" Abigail's voice betrayed no lack of confidence as she pressed on, "Between your crew and his, how many men were there?"

Frowning, Billy tried to remember the specifics of who had survived that day to sail on. So many of the men he had known had died these past few months, it was sometimes hard to keep track of who had died where. "Between Vane's crew and ours, about forty-five men, give or take. But--"

Abigail had begun nodding at that, and interrupted Billy before he could finish his statement. "Forty-five men," she repeated. "So, that would mean that my reputation was traded for the lives of roughly forty-five men." She nodded at this, seemingly more to herself than to him, and the corners of her lips seemed to quirk upwards in something like satisfaction. "Well, I would say that was a more than equitable exchange."

Unable to hide his surprise at this reaction, Billy goggled at the young woman. Abigail seemed utterly nonplussed, and was now calmly sipping her drink and looking out the window. "Miss Ashe--"

"Abigail."

"Miss Ashe," Billy continued, a note of frustration rising in his voice. "I don't know if I made myself clear--"

"You are claiming that you are to blame for my misfortunes," she interrupted again, turning to meet his gaze directly. Abigail drew herself up in her seat, and lifted her chin once again as she spoke. "Well, maybe you are, in part. You took my private thoughts and made them public. The airing of those words compounded an already fragile situation for me, leaving my reputation in the Americas truly unsalvageable. But you seem to forget, it was I was who write those words. And what is more, I never once attempted to retract them. It would have been terribly easy to do so. Those that would still speak to me kept saying how I could not understand the complexities of the world, that I was obviously traumatized by everything I had been through." She smiled ruefully now, turning to watch the storm through the slats in the window as she continued. "After all, how could I stand by what I had written, when those same men I defended had murdered my father? But I would not back away from it, I even defended my viewpoint on more than one occasion. It was not long before I found myself almost entirely ostracized." With that, she lapsed into silence, her eyes far away and seeming to look more inwards than out. For all Billy knew, the storm could be tearing the roof off the inn that very moment, but he found himself completely incapable of looking away from the woman across from him. When Abigail spoke again, she seemed to be miles away, her voice soft. "Before, I think I only saw the world in absolutes. I accepted the world as it was presented to me, instead of seeking to know it for myself. Now, I find the lines between what is right and what is not are not so simply drawn. And I cannot help but wonder if, in the eyes of those people, if that was not my greatest sin."

Abigail stopped abruptly, as if remembering where she was, and turned to meet Billy's eyes squarely. After a moment's consideration, she leaned across the table, and covered one of his large hands with one of her own. With startling clarity, he felt each peak and valley of her palm as it lay lightly upon the back of his hand. She had the starts of calluses on her index and middle fingers, likely from needlework. "I understand this is likely not the reaction you expected of me, Billy. I will not pretend I feel no anger about what has happened to me. I was kidnapped and jailed, witnessed my father betray his friends, and the very next day, I buried him. Every expectation my life had built to was shattered in the course of a few weeks. But I have to admit, of the injustices I have faced, to be cast out by a group of elitists more interested in their own comfort than anything else in the world is one thing I cannot wholeheartedly regret."

The pair sat there, and later, Billy couldn't say if it lasted only an instant, or for an age. When Abigail finally looked away, she sighed and sat back in her chair. Billy's hand burned with cold, exposed to the damp air once again. He blinked, and glanced around the room, the noise of the crowded inn returning in a rush. The flurry of motion near the front must mean the storm had broken again, as suddenly as it had started, and many people were apparently making a break for their homes while they could.

Billy stood, and this time Abigail did not stop him. "I... I could see you home. If you'd like, M-- Abigail."

"I should like that very much, Billy," she replied. She smiled as she stood, and Billy couldn't help but return the expression. He hoped fervently that Garrett wasn't watching. He knew this was idiotic, that he could blow his cover, that he was in the middle of a fucking war, and the last thing he should be doing was walking a girl around a town no one could know he was even in, but he just couldn't bring himself to give a fuck about any of that. He waited for her to pass in front of him, and made to follow once she did, but paused when he felt a touch on his elbow. He looked down to see Eme, her dark eyes inscrutable, had appeared from nowhere. Surprised at her sudden appearance, he stopped, keeping an eye on Abigail as she slowly wound her way through the thick crowd.

Eme gestured quickly for him to bend down to hear her speak. "She trusts you," she said. Billy couldn't tell if this was a question or not, so he merely nodded in response. Eme nodded as well, though Billy thought it was more to herself than him. "She has good reason not to trust pirates. So I will trust you, too. Come back tomorrow morning, through the kitchen. We will talk." With a last look, Eme slipped away as quickly as she'd appeared. After a stunned second, Billy rushed to catch up to Abigail. Once again, he felt like he'd missed something important, but when it came to how women's minds worked, he suspected this was how most men felt. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That freaking conversation took way too long, sorry for the hold up. Might still need some editing. Might do a real short third part to this chapter, too, if y'all think it's needed. Billy's reaction to that info dump, and maybe something quick w/Garrett.
> 
> Also, nobody tell me what's happening in season 4, I haven't seen any of it.


	6. 14th of April, dusk

When he saw Jacob sitting on the porch, Billy didn't stop walking, but he did swear a bit under his breath. He'd hoped to avoid the man, for at least the night. He didn't want to answer the man's questions about what had happened at the inn, who Abigail was, how he knew the lass, or any of it. No way around it, though. Billy could feel Jacob watching him as he walked up, but the sun had set as he'd made his way back from town, and the lantern Jacob had lit cast hard shadows which made it difficult to read the man's expression.

"Evening," Garrett offered cheerfully.

"Evening," Billy returned, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"Ben and I ate a bit ago," Garrett said, handing Billy some hard tack and a stringy lump of dried and salted dairy goat after he'd seated himself on the porch.

Billy grimaced at it. He hated hard tack. They were extremely low on provisions, and were rationing what they had. At least there was water. Hunger was not half as bad as thirst. He tore a strip off the goat meat, and began to chew methodically. The chirps and hums of insects filled the night.

"Ben's been working on the vegetable garden. It's a right mess, though. Got about half of it cleared."

Billy grunted, still chewing.

"Says the corn should be ready in a few weeks," Jacob continued, still cheerful. "The squash and half the peppers are a lost cause though. Said he'd pull them up tomorrow, put down some yuca."

Billy grunted again, not particularly interested in the details of reviving the Barlow woman's vegetable garden. He'd eat just about anything that wasn't hard tack or goat, at this point. He took another bite off the goat.

"Beans might be alright though, if they get enough sun."

Bite. Grunt. Chew.

"So." Jacob seemed to be testing the waters, now. "The milliner's girl."

 _Finally_. Billy never did like to beat around the bush. He swallowed a mouthful of hard tack, not looking over yet. "What about her?"

"She's a sweet thing."

Billy glanced at the other man from the corner of his eye now. "Aye?"

Jacob raised a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I'll keep my distance. Just saying, that's all."

"She's-- I'm not--" Billy took a breath, frowning. "It's not what you think. I... She did our lot a good turn once. And she got hurt for it. Just trying to look out for her, that's all."

"Is that so? So, you won't mind if I try and win her over, then?"

 _Something_  he hadn't intended must have shown on Billy's face, as Jacob started laughing almost immediately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a snippet :) I've got a big chunk written, but I feel bad about how slow I am, so here's this until I find a decent stopping point on the next bit.


	7. 15th of April, morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't dead! Just got a bit stuck for a while there, sorry. Couldn't figure out how to get the story to the ending I want (which is basically all I had going in, not a great plan). Good news is I finished season 4 a bit ago, and it gave me some very clear ideas on how to get this where I wanted to go, and work calmed down finally, so hopefully updates will be a bit less sparse :D

Dropping the lace curtain as if she had been burned, Abigail quickly retreated from the window and into the shadowy recesses of her bed chamber, a flush rising in her cheeks. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped forward again, lifting the curtain the barest amount she could to see out, and peeked through once again, squinting a little in the morning sun. 

Mrs. Thwaites and she had only just finished their breakfast, and Abigail had returned to her little room to fetch her apron and tidy up some before going downstairs to open the shop. But she'd glimpsed an unusual amount of motion through the window, and now found herself entirely distracted from her task. Though it was not so very long past dawn, the day was already well underway. The ruined stables across the way seethed like a disturbed anthill as men hauled broken timbers and palm fronds into ramshackle piles. The storm's cool gloom had given way to the unrelenting Caribbean sun, and work to set the building to rights again had apparently already begun some time ago. News of a chance to earn a day's wages always traveled quickly, and many land-bound sailors had turned up to offer their labor. Many had chosen to strip down to the waist, in observance of the day,s growing heat. Backs and chests flashed with sweat and sun, and Abigail's upstairs window was a prime spot to view the work without being spied herself. The true surprise had come when she had spotted none other than Billy, smack in the middle of the proceedings, and currently assisting two other men in wrenching a support beam free from the tangled wreckage.

It was not as if she had never _seen_ an unclothed man before. Living in Nassau could quickly put one past the point of being remotely shocked at partial nudity. Even before she had sailed for the New World, there had been a few summers spent in her much younger days with equally young cousins by the seaside. The boys would often strip to their skins to run and shriek without shame in the sea spray, all ribs and knees and elbows. And later, sailing on the _Good Fortune_ , and all the other ships that followed, sailors were like as not to be in some state of undress, simply out of necessity. But all of that had been rather... different. There had never been time to really _look_ at any of them, and Abigail had always done her best to avert her gaze, as propriety always demanded a young lady should.

Only... well, she was not a lady _anymore_ , was she? She was a shop girl. Maybe someday, she might even be a merchant in her own right, but for now, she was only a shop girl. And no one really cared much _what_ shop girls looked at.

Face burning, Abigail leaned a little closer to the window, angling her neck for a better vantage. Some men were dark, some fair, some soft and round, while others were hard and angular. All were an interesting sight, to a curious mind. But Billy... He was shirtless, the same as so many of the others, but the effect was rather different. Muscles rippled across his shoulders in a very interesting play as he heaved a chunk of a support beam onto a pile. _He looks like a statue_ , she thought. _Roman bronze brought to life_. She could not be sure if it was because she knew him personally, or if it was just because his physique was just so... singular. All the same, she stood there still as stone, watching him stride back and forth amongst the men and detritus.

Abigail supposed the shock she had felt to see Billy down there really had no legitimate cause. After Billy had walked her home again, once the last wailing of the storm passed over, she had simply not expected to see him again for several days, if at all, as per the pattern. Then again, Billy always surprised her merely by showing up when she did not expect him to, and yesterday, after his curious confession, he had surprised her again when he offered to walk her home once again.

They had spoken little as they walked, and Abigail was coming to realize that Billy was not one for idle chatter. In truth, much more of the conversation had been implied than not. When she had asked whether he still sailed with the crew she knew, Billy had admitted he was not sailing at all, for the time being. Abigail knew these did not mean the same things, but also knew better than to press him for clarification. She had also gathered from what he did _not_ say that he was trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, an endeavor she understood. There were warrants for the arrest of many of the men whom had not accepted clemency, and though she had never seen Billy's name listed among those wanted, she knew how little that actually meant. She did not need to ask if he would accept the King's pardon, for she knew without asking he had not, _would_ not accept it, no matter how much easier it would make his life. So, it must be that it just surprised her to see him _now_ , so soon, and so... _exposed_. That is to say, out on the street, in the daylight, not... _anyway_.

She was not entirely sure what her relationship with Billy was, but she thought they might be friends, of some sort. At least, she hoped so. From the start, Abigail had seen something in Billy she cared to know, something she could not define, but something she knew could be important. Now as she got to know him better, Abigail was finding she rather liked his style of quiet companionship. He never forced conversation, content with silence when words alluded him. When he did speak, it was with care and thought, and his perspectives were always insightful and interesting. When she spoke in turn, she found he actually _listened_ , and would often think for several moments before making any reply. What she liked most about him was how Billy always treated her simply as an equal, never condescending or pitying, nor overly deferential. It had been so long since someone had treated her with something other than pity or indifference, and it was a refreshing change.

Abigail had to admit, it had also been refreshing simply to _be_ with another person, aside from her employer. She loved Mrs. Thwaites, of course, and enjoyed her company, but it just was not enough. Abigail had come to Nassau not just to survive, but to truly  _live_ , and part of what she wanted in life was friendship. She  _missed_ having friends, that sense of belonging and camaraderie with others. There was no reason she should not make new ones for this new life she would lead. However, making friends in her new station in life was proving to be a rather more difficult task than it had seemed when she was younger. It was not as if she could call on Billy, as she may have done for a new friend in her previous life. There was precious little time for such things now, with the shop and all, and even if she had time, she had no idea where he lived when not at sea. Perhaps she could invite him to the shop, for... for  _something_ , but how? When? Would he even wish to come, or were their previous encounters more than he had wanted to know of her in the first place? Abigail had never been friends with a man of no relation to her before, so the logistics of how to establish such a relationship was a total mystery to her. 

As she watched Billy working below, thinking of friends both old and new, she found herself recalling a time back at her finishing school. Two of her friends had rushed into her room in a flushed state of excitement, after stumbling across the young groundskeeper repairing the little fountain in the garden. Apparently, the nature of the task had obliged that young man to take a similar approach to his clothing as Billy and his compatriots below did now, but one of the school governesses had caught the pair spying on the scene from behind a hedge, and had sent the two girls off in a quietly scandalized rage. The pair of girls had relayed the deliciously naughty tale between breathless giggles, and Abigail had smiled and giggled along with them, even though at the time she had secretly thought they were being rather silly, remembering her childhood visits to the seashore. Now though, recalling the groundskeeper's shaggy curls and broad shoulders, and seeing Billy pause to roll his own shoulders before bending to contend with an axe and a large chunk of lumber, she thought she could better understand the state they were in...

"Well, you have quite the view from here, don't you, my dear?" Mrs. Thwaites' voice seemed to contain a generous measure of suppressed mirth as she suddenly burst into existence next to Abigail.

Abigail reared back, almost knocking her forehead against the window in her haste to turn toward the miraculously appeared milliner. "M—Mrs. Thwaites!" If her face grew any warmer, Abigail was sure it could start a fire, if one only held some kindling to her cheeks. Sheer muscle memory forced her to bob a shallow curtsy, but Abigail was glad for the excuse to direct her gaze to the floor. The old woman watched her flounder with an air of understanding amusement only the elderly possess. "I—ah, that is—good morning, Mrs. Thwaites!" 

"Oh, don't mind me, dear," Mrs. Thwaites trilled happily. "I just came to say we shan't be opening the shop today. With the all the commotion downstairs, we'll not get any custom today in any case, and don't forget the tailor is coming by to help us with the Beaumont order. Come downstairs now, and help me get things ready for Mr. DuBois' arrival." But instead of turning to leave, Mrs. Thwaites instead looked down to the street, and let out a wistful sigh. The woman leaned a bit sideways towards Abigail, and without looking away from the scene below, began to murmur conspiratorially. "Now, that tall one there is _quite_ the specimen, wouldn't you agree, dear? I must say, I have never been partial to blonds, but I do think we should make an exception in his case, don't you? Why, back in my day, my dear friend Eliza—have I told you about her? Well, she and I would have—"

"I know the gentleman, in truth," Abigail blurted out, lest the milliner continue her story. Abigail had already experienced tales of dear Eliza before, and they were quite scandalous, to say the least. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, m'am, I was only surprised to see him. He was a sailor before, a member of the crew that gave me passage to Carolina."

"Indeed, and a _pirate_ , you mean, and I'm aware that you're acquainted, seeing as the young man has seen you to our door on more than one occasion, but I do appreciate you finally telling me." Mrs. Thwaites winked, then laughed at the expression on Abigail's face. "Oh, don't look at me like that, dear, every woman is entitled to her secrets, and I'm _sure_ nothing _untoward_ came of any of it. Truthfully, it is something of a relief to know there is at least one other in Nassau aside from myself who seems concerned about your welfare." The woman began to tap her chin in a thoughtful manner then, as a cunning smile slowly unfurled itself across her wrinkled face. "He seems a perfectly nice man, if perhaps a touch old for you, but you've an old soul in any case, I think."

Abigail blinked at that last, and felt her blush charge her cheeks with renewed force. She opened her mouth to correct the milliner, but the woman merrily carried on as if she did not notice how Abigail was gasping for words like a fish.

"You know, we _did_ have some debris from the storm blown into the kitchen garden, and frankly it really has gone to seed these past few years. I've been meaning to do something about it for _ages_... But with us being only a pair of women on our own, and me at my age at that, well, we may have no _choice_ but to find a nice young man with a strong back to come help us set it to rights!" Mrs. Thwaites quirked an eyebrow at her before she turned away, and Abigail could hear the woman chuckling under her breath about being thirty years younger.

After a moment, and one last glance at the window, Abigail followed, wondering if anyone had ever truly died from embarrassment.

* * *

 

After one last heave, the shattered beam finally gave way, coming free of the debris with a crunch. After hauling the chunk of lumber to the scrap pile, Billy wiped his brow with a great sigh before moving to wrench the next free. The sun was beginning to climb higher, and he hadn't been the first to strip off his sweaty shirt to keep working. He was already dog tired, but not from the work or the heat.

Billy had stolen into town before dawn this morning to speak with Eme. The inn's kitchen had been hotter than hell, and the smell of baking bread had driven him to distraction, hungry as he was. Eme's doorman had glared dourly from the corner as they sat down to talk. She may have said she would trust him, but there was apparently a limit as to _how far_ she would trust him. Billy couldn't say he really blamed her, though. In her place, he wouldn't trust him, either. After days of needling, _something_  had changed her mind though, and she finally answered some of Billy's questions. Not all, of course, but some, and it was _something_ at least. And what Eme _was_ willing to say, at least, had been enlightening, if frustrating at times.

When Flint ordered Billy to investigate what remained of Scott's network across the island, the captain had likely expected to find an organized network of spies, ideally placed to gain a detailed account of comings and goings across the whole island, and already operating their own smuggling network in and out of the island. This expectation had been far from reality. The network Scott had built consisted of rushed whispers, passed along on those few occasions when slaves from disparate households might come across each other, and so information was neither regular nor entirely reliable, as news often went through three or four channels. It was families split across different plantations and households in town, trying desperately to keep in touch with each other, and they were far more concerned with babes and deaths and marriages than numbers of overseers and provision levels at any given plantation. And while there _had_ been a small smuggling operation, it had died with Scott. Eme claimed not to know who exactly had worked with Scott in that endeavor, and supposedly the individual contacts on the plantations did not know who the others were either, or even the entire route Scott used to move goods and men on and off the island (and the men who left New Providence did not come back, lest their former masters might find them). It had been too dangerous, should one man be found out, so no one save Scott had ever had the entire picture. Given what they now knew of Scott's secretiveness, Billy was inclined to believe Eme's claims of ignorance on the matter. 

He had tried to convince Eme to ask for more, to ask the house slaves to start listening more when their masters talked, to ask the farm hands to start looking around when overseers moved. It was their fight as well, after all, Billy argued, and the slaves stood to gain as much and more than anyone, should they succeed. Eme had refused point blank, with such a level of vehemence that her man had taken a step towards them, before being stilled by a gesture from Eme. The danger for the slaves and their families was too great if they were found out, she said, and the look in her eyes said an argument on the matter would end their dealings, then and there. The counterpoint of how they were _all_ in fucking danger had burned hot on his tongue, but he swallowed it, and kept his silence. Billy was short on allies, and he couldn't risk her shutting him out. Eme had at least seemed appeased by his silence, and even reluctantly agreed to pass along any information that might be relevant to the cause, should it arise. Billy didn't expect much to come of it, but it was still better than nothing.

The subject of the weapons caches was also a disappointment, as Scott had been in the process of smuggling the last of it off the island when he'd been shot. Nothing of the arsenal remained, save perhaps a small cache somewhere near the Beaumont estate they possibly hadn't finished clearing. With their smuggling operation ended, the slave community lacked the means to reach it, but should Billy and his people somehow manage to find it, they were welcome to whatever was left of it. This gesture had seemed unexpectedly generous at the time, but now he really thought on it, Billy suspected it was less generosity than it was prudence. With the island at war, the plantation owners were all on high alert, and the slaves were safer without any hidden powder kegs squirreled anywhere near them, begging questions should they be discovered. Of course, Billy was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. Better to take a look and see what remained, it served all sides in the end. 

On the subject of town, at least, Eme was much more forthcoming. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and soldiers alike came to the inn, and many were looser with their tongues than was clever. She could point him to who might be sympathetic to the cause, and who would not, which soldiers could be bought, which merchants would turn them in, which men were concerned about being turned in themselves, and much more. The wary woman had even spied out a few of Max's eyes and ears, and by extension, the governor's. A means to plant false information could prove invaluable, and had been more than Billy had dared hope to gain from convincing Eme to speak to him. Eme had also agreed to start allowing them to buy supplies through the inn, provided he could provide her coin to do it. Apparently, some point after Eleanor Guthrie had been shipped back to London for trial, Max had bought a controlling stake in the inn, and now watched the accountbooks like a hawk. According to Featherstone, Max had quite a head for numbers. So while Eme could not simply give them what they needed, she _could_ place orders for them, and see that their supplies were delivered at night, when they'd draw less attention. It would make things a great deal simpler for them at the cottage, would mean they'd have more to eat soon, and this was another boon Billy hadn't expected.

One of the more interesting pieces of information Eme had shared had been about Billy, himself. Or rather, the lack of information about him was interesting. There were warrants and descriptions being circulated for not just Flint, Silver, and the other captains that had not signed the pardon, but even the higher ranking members of their crews. For instance, there was a high price for Mr. De Groot, who had been Flint's sailing master ever since Flint had become captain of the _Walrus_. The unique men were being watched for as well, those who would be easy to spot, like Joji and even Joshua, who had died all the way back in Charlestown. But there was no mention of Billy Bones, no word at all of a tall blue-eyed man among Flint's inner circle. Nothing. The dearth of rumor about hisself had truly surprised Billy, which didn't really happen all that often. As Flint's first mate, he'd assumed there would be eyes searching for him. And it wasn't as if he'd never done anything notable. Billy was a fiercesome fighter in his own right, and a damned good sailor. Hell, he'd even come back from the dead once, after being lost at sea in the escape from the _Scarborough_. If _that_ didn't get a man a reputation, he couldn't say what the hell did.

Then again, now he was thinking on it... Billy _had_ always kept a lower profile than most. He'd never cared much for the inn or the brothels, had always preferred to keep to himself and his crew, even while at port. And frankly, even being as tall as he was didn't make him the sore thumb Joji was. And if they were still looking for _Joshua_ , they had to be going off very old intelligence. It must have been mostly Hornigold, and maybe the Guthrie woman and Max, citing who the threats were, and Billy couldn't recall ever really interacting with any of them, after all. To be honest, Billy wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the unknown status, or insulted by the apparent dismissal of himself as a possible threat. Either way, it _would_ make operating in Nassau a great deal simpler, and that was useful, at the least.

They had pored over the myriad rumors circulating through town until the sun had begun to peek over the horizon, and Eme had to call a stop to get the inn opened, agreeing to touch base with him in a few days. As she pressed a thick slice of warm squash bread into his hands and ushered him out the back door, the last thing Eme had mentioned was that there was to be a call for laborers later, to clear the remains of the destroyed stables near the milliner's shop. Seeing as how what coin they had was draining away fast, Billy thought it as good an opportunity as any to test out his newly realized anonymity. And it seemed to be true. Sure, there were a number of men, honest sailors and pirates alike who knew him, but other than an occasional nod, none seemed to care to do anything with the recognition. No one looked twice at him, not even the governor's officer overseeing the clean-up of the storm damage for the stable's owner. He barely even glanced at him before setting Billy to work and moving on to the next in line. Still, Billy  _felt_ watched. His shoulder blades itched, but whichever way he turned, he never saw anyone. He rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to dismiss the prickling sensation at the base of his neck as leftover nerves.

The sun climbed higher as the day carried on, and Billy's nerves dissipated with its ascent. The wreckage was cleared from the remains of the stables, most of the walls were deemed salvageable. While they hauled debris to and fro, he'd managed to speak to a few men whom had known him on sight and a few more for whom the governor's rule was beginning to chafe, and arranged to meet some of them after sunset, out by the wrecks. Billy and some others were then set to cutting the fallen tree's trunk and larger beams from the roof down to size, to be used in the new construction. Billy had also watched as a well-dressed man he knew to be the tailor Abigail had visited yesterday came and went from the milliner's shop. _Not that that's any of your fucking concern_ , Billy resolutely told himself.

As he was chopping down the last of the scrap lumber, a pair of redcoats walked past on patrol, and paused to lean in the shade of a nearby awning, chatting all the while and paying Billy no mind. Surreptitiously, Billy set his axe down, and crouched to sit on the sun warmed wood he'd been working on. He was careful to keep his back to the men, and pretended to massage an ache in his knee and thigh as he eavesdropped. 

"—'eard it from Berringer 'imself, this mornin'," said one. "They got a captain with that lot captured, but not much of one. Claimed to be 'is own first mate at first, but Berringer got the truth of 'im las' night. Name's Auger, or somethin' like that. You ever 'eard of 'im?"

"Yeah," drawled the other. "He was one that took the pardon early on, wasn't he? Didn't last long, though. Got a pretty little sloop off Rogers, and went off on a resupply. Of course, first ship they saw, they were right back to old habits!" They both laughed then. "Yeah, I remember old Hornigold's face, when he heard Auger turned, went red as a—"

"Oi!" Billy jerked his head up, and saw one of the carpenters in charge of the construction bearing down on him, hard and fast. Billy stood up slowly, and the man stopped short, no doubt surprised by his size. It happened a lot, people never seemed to expect him to be as big as he was, though the why of it always remained a mystery to him. To the carpenter's credit though, he only wavered a moment before recovering and glaring up at Billy, undaunted. "Quit slouching, or we'll bloody well find someone else to do the job!"

"Aye, sir!" Billy said, taking axe in hand again, and setting to work with gusto. The man watched him for a moment before stalking off to berate someone else. The two redcoats had meandered off as well, before Billy could pick up any more of their conversation. Billy frowned, settling into the groove of the axe's motion, trying to remember John Auger. As Billy had heard tell, Captain Auger was old, unambitious, and drunk oft as not. Not good enough to achieve much fame, but not incompetent enough to be deposed by his crew, either, who were of much the same ilk. Still, the man was a pirate captain. And even a shit captain was better than none, for Rogers' cause. There still hadn't been word of when the trials would begin, though maybe they'd make announcements on that today. Jacob should hear about it, he'd gone off to lurk about the governor's mansion again today, to see what news he might sniff out regarding yesterday's announcements. 

He faltered on the next swing, nearly missing the beam entirely, the thought of Jacob momentarily distracting him. He swore a bit as he adjusted his stance before setting to again. Billy was still agitated about the little chat he and Garrett had had last night. Jacob had really gotten the wrong end of it, about Abigail. It irritated him more than it should, but Billy'd decided it just wasn't worth the trouble of correcting the man. Sure, he'd have to deal with a few jokes at his expense from Garrett, but that was of minor concern. Plus, it killed two birds with one stone: Billy wouldn't have to further explain anything at all about Abigail to Jacob (after Charlestown, Billy had decided he was done spreading about any of her business without her express consent, no matter if it was already public knowledge), and Jacob thinking she was Billy's would sure as hell keep him well away from her.

Of course, just who Abigail permitted to court her was none of Billy's affair. Obviously. Abigail seemed to be determined to be her own woman, and live her life by her own code, come hell or high water. She might look soft, but she had a spine laced with steel, and Billy respected the fuck out of her for that. But he had also meant it when he'd told Jacob he meant to look out for her. She deserved far better than what she'd gotten from the world, and Billy had decided he'd do everything in his power to ensure she'd not suffer at the hands of his own sort again. And for all he liked Garrett, when it came to women, Jacob's hands were the exact sort that might cause her to suffer, though not out of cruelty. When it came to women, the _chase_ was what interested Jacob. Once that part was over, Billy had seen just how quickly Jacob moved on to the next girl. After everything else, Abigail didn't deserve that sort of heartache. She deserved someone... _good_. A man who was strong, who was loyal and kind, someone entirely devoted to her every happiness. Someone who could give her back everything she'd ever lost, and more besides. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he thought about that man, and Billy's next swing wedged the axe so deeply in the thick beam that he had to hold the down the wood with his foot to work it free. 

After a time, Billy lost his thoughts in the work, and it was almost relaxing to think only of the axe in his hand, and how hard he should swing it. He forgot Flint and Silver, the war, captured sailors, Eme, Garrett, all of it, there was just the axe. Before he knew it, the chopping was done, and with it Billy's forgetting. He gathered up and stacked the last of his lumber with the rest of the scrap wood, and noted a knot of men waiting in the shade for their pay to be handed out. He moved to join them, snatching up his shirt up and tugging it on as he did. Ostensibly, the rest of the work would be reserved for more experienced carpenters and builders. The truth of the matter was those better paying jobs would go to men the governor and his officers deemed _respectable citizens_ , and therefore more deserving of food in their bellies.

A bucket salvaged from the stable had been filled with water from somewhere, and a ladle scrounged up to drink from, and they were both being passed around as the laborers waited. Billy drank deeply when it came to his hands, and when the bucket was emptied, Billy volunteered to make the half-mile trek out to the well to refill it. It was in the same direction the pair of officers he'd overheard earlier had gone. With any luck, he might come across them again, and maybe pick up some more of their chatter. Even without those two, gathering areas like wells were always good spots to catch a few rumors. Good chance to see if any of his were taking root. And it was definitely not a distraction from staring at the millinery shop's windows.

Billy was practically jogging by the time he made it to the sunny little patch the well stood in, the bucket banging against his thighs when he slowed. The well was deserted in the high heat of the day, and the chatty guardsmen nowhere in sight. Billy grimaced. It'd been a bad gamble, apparently, and now, Billy would run the risk of having very little to show for the day, should the construction foremen decide to distribute the day's wages while he was absent. With nothing to be gained from taking his time, Billy kept up the pace, moving quickly to the well, and turning the crank as quickly as he could. He sloshed water haphazardly from the well's bucket into his own, and in his haste to get back to the stables, he never heard the figure approaching behind him. When he rapidly wheeled about, he nearly ran straight into her, lurching awkwardly with a stuttered oath, miraculously avoiding the collision and slopping the water across her, but the woman still went down with a yelp when she jumped back to avoid him turning into her. The yoke for carrying water across her shoulders lost balance, and down she went into a tangle of rope and limbs and buckets and skirts.

After a stunned instant, the tangled pile finally stirred. "Ow," a familiar sort voice stated.

"Abigail? Jesus, are you alright? Abigail? Abigail!"

* * *

 

Blinking at the bright sun, Abigail took stock, closing her eyes tight as she inwardly cursed her luck. She had tripped over her own damned feet and one of the empty buckets that had been swinging from her shoulder yoke somehow got under one of her feet and sent her flying, but she was fairly certain she was fine. Her head was swimming, but keeping her eyes shut seemed to be helping. She tried to move her arm to touch the back of her head, and there was something behind her neck making her uncomfortable she would rather like to move, but her arm seemed caught in something. _Fucking yoke_ , she thought vaguely, dropping her arm again. There were cobblestones spread around the well, baked dry by the sun, so she had at least been spared going down in the mud, and it seemed Billy had indeed managed to keep hold of his own water bucket, so she was mercifully dry. She just needed a moment to collect herself, that was all.

Billy was saying something, but Abigail couldn't hear him over her own thoughts, the disappointed sounds made by the memories of the many governesses she had had throughout her life, all utterly aghast at her utter lack of poise. Never mind that Abigail had always been praised by her teachers for her graceful motion; no, it seemed she was doomed to always come across as the gawkiest creature to ever live when it _actually_ mattered. Of _course_ it was Billy. Of course it was. She huffed a frustrated sigh. Things can never go to _plan_ , oh no, not for Abigail Ashe.

Their rain barrels were all full to bursting, but to renovate the little kitchen garden they would need extra water besides. This was how Abigail had come to be here, instead of comfortably back at home, employing the cunning little trick Mr. DuBois had imparted to her about stitching up shoulders on the new dress she had been making for herself. Of the many traits Abigail had come to recognize in her employer, one of the most prevalent proved to be single-mindedness. Now that Mrs. Thwaites had the bit in her teeth about the garden and the part she had decided Billy was to play in its restoration, she would be unable to rest till the man had agreed to the job. It was not as if they even really  _needed_ an extra hand for the work, it was not as daunting of a task as Mrs. Thwaites seemed to think, and Abigail was confident she could have managed it just fine alone. All morning, Mrs. Thwaites had been making thinly veiled remarks (thank God the tailor was as oblivious to such as most men), and looking at the back door to the garden, out the window to the stables still underway, and at Abigail with that damn amused look. As soon as Mr. DuBois had taken his leave, the milliner immediately moved to follow, taking up her sun hat and its many pins as she turned to the mirror, her face set and determined. Knowing Mrs. Thwaites' intentions, Abigail had managed to persuade the woman to at least let her handle it. "I am already acquainted with Mr. Bones, after all," Abigail had argued. "It may seem less forward, if the request comes from me." Mrs. Thwaites had agreed readily, with a rather devious twinkle in her eye, and Abigail was convinced that coercing her into approaching Billy had been the milliner's goal all along. 

As she walked to the well, Abigail had been thinking of her plan to approach Billy, and not paying much attention as she approached the well. Drawing water was not the easiest work, and required a fairly long walk inland, so most reserved the task to earlier and later parts of the day, when it was cooler. Abigail hated maneuvering through the crowds with the ungainly shoulder yoke though, so she much preferred to go when the well and streets would not be crowded. _Literally_ running into the man in question had most assuredly _not_ been part of the plan. Not that she had formed one yet, but still, falling on her face at his feet had not occurred to her as an _option_.

There was a thump, and a sloshing sound. A few more quick thuds, an odd, dry sound near her ear, and then the dark behind her eyelids was suddenly... darker? This made Abigail remember her eyes were still shut. She opened them as she turned toward the odd sound. The sunlight dazzled her for a moment before she made out a suntanned hand and leather bracer, splayed just by where her ear had been before she moved. _Skin on dry stone_ , she thought, _that was what that noise was_. She followed the hand up to an elbow, then up a muscular arm to an equally strong shoulder, neck, and there was Billy, braced over her on hands and knees, blocking some of the sun and closer than he had ever been to her before. Concern was apparent on his face. He let out a breath when she met his eyes, and the warm puff of air on her face tickled, almost making Abigail giggle. He was so close, Abigail could make out the different flecks of blue and even some striations of gray deep in his eyes. They were quite pretty eyes. _Do men like to be told their eyes are pretty?_ she wondered.

Billy licked his lips, still looking worried. "Abigail?" he asked. "Abigail, are you hurt? Can you move?"

She blinked a few times, hair catching in the sandy stone underneath as she tilted her head at the strange question. Of course she could move, she was fine, why in the world did he seem so worried? Then Abigail realized she had barely moved at all since she had fallen, and had not uttered a word to assure him she was alright. _Fuck_ , she thought again. Her wits returned in sudden full force with the obscenity, along with the realization she was sprawled on the ground with a man leaning over her, and her skirts in total disarray, where anyone might see. She reached up again and this time the rope tangled about her arm came with it. She gingerly felt the back of her skull, but there was no wetness there to indicate blood. Billy quickly leaned back onto his knees to give her room to move, sitting on his heels. She popped up onto her elbows, then quickly sat full upright, shaking her head a little. She was not terribly dizzy, definitely good. Her head throbbed, and probably would for a long while more, but other than her pride nothing else about her seemed harmed at all.

Desparate to save face, Abigail instantly decided on pretending nothing was amiss. "Billy!" she exclaimed with false brightness, straightening her skirts hurriedly. "Good afternoon! How nice to see you again!"

Clearly, Billy was buying none of her pretense. His expression remained concerned, but relief began to show in his eyes as he watched her move about, and even a touch of something Abigail thought might be amusement. After a moment, he reached out to help her unwind the rope from her arm. "Good afternoon," he returned cautiously. He collected the mess of ropes, yoke, and buckets, and moved them to the side of where he was kneeling, keeping an eye on Abigail as she set herself to rights. Oddly, her actions seemed to relax him, maybe because trussed up skirts seemed such a small concern compared to a possible head injury. "Let's see if we can get you back on your feet, then."

He stood, then bent to gather up her hands in his before she could protest. Gripping her wrists, Billy heaved Abigail upwards with little effort at all. He kept a firm hold of one of her arms, and his other hand snaked to her side to keep her steady while she swayed, thoroughly dizzy upon ascent. His hands were quite warm, and large, and although a bit rough with calluses, still quite nice. She shook her head at her wandering thoughts. Standing seemed to be helping Abigail gather up the last of her wits, and the dizziness was fading quickly. "You _sure_ you're alright?" he asked, bending some to look her square in the eye. "A knock on the head can be dangerous," he said, peering at her face. Holding tightly to her arm, he took his hand back from her waist, and lifted it in front on her face, moving a raised finger slowly back and forth in front of her eyes.

"Yes, I'm quite sure," Abigail replied, eyes following the motion of his hand reflexively. Then she looked past it, and up to his eyes, which were watching her own. She tilted her head again. "Why are you doing that?"

Stopping, Billy surprised her with a rather sheepish grin. He really did have a nice smile. "I'm not really sure," he laughed. "Doctor Howell always does that when someone on the _Walrus_ hits his head, but I guess I never asked why." He reached back to cup the back of her head, fingers probing gently into her hair, eyes thoughtful. She was just starting to think how nice the touch felt, ignoring the steadily growing thought of how inappropriate it was, when his fingers finally found the tender spot he had been searching for. She winced, and so did he, around the smile that had not entirely faded. "That'll be quite a bump."

Abigail reached back with her own free hand, and when she lightly brushed Billy's knuckles, he shifted his hand down allowing her to lightly touch the quickly swelling lump. His loose hand slipped back around her neck, lightly grazing her collarbone as it fell away. That seemed to remind him how close he was still standing to her, and he finally stepped back, releasing the hand he had still held from pulling her to her feet and clearing his throat, the sheepish smile melting away entirely. Still mildly dazed, she watched dumbly as he grabbed one of her buckets, filled it from the well, then dumped most of the water from his bucket into her other. Then he reattached the filled buckets to the yoke, and bent to settle the thing across his shoulders. He stood straight without any effort, as if the combined weight of the yoke, buckets, and water all mattered very little to him. 

"Oh, no, I'm fine, you don't—"

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to," Billy interrupted, echoing his statement from the night before. Shaking his head a little, a lopsided smile returned as he raised an eyebrow. He looked amused, though at what Abigail could not say. He jerked his chin backwards where the large bucket he had brought sat empty. "You take that one."

Abigail smiled back shyly, grateful even if she felt a bit guilty letting him do her work. She turned and took up the larger bucket, and thinking she could at least carry his burden if he would insist on carrying hers, began to move towards the well's crank before Billy stopped her. "Don't worry about that, just don't like to leave it here is all."

"But didn't you need..."

Billy began shaking his head again as soon as she opened her mouth, and Abigail trailed off. He shrugged, a feat made more impressive considering the weight he carried on his shoulders. "Can always come back, if I need to." Carrying the single large bucket all the way back weighed down with water would not have been entirely easy for her to manage anyway, so she relented.

They fell into step easily, heading back for the street, and Billy was as considerate as always not to outdistance Abigail with his long strides. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably did way more research on the Bahamian water table and colonial era water transport than was strictly necessary. I was thinking of changing the chapter titles, too, to something like time stamps (something like "The afternoon of the 28th of July, in the year of our Lord God and King George the I, 1716"), would that throw anyone who's following this as I post off?


End file.
